


(Destiel) From Another World

by Gemminycricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angry Castiel/Dean Winchester, Angry Dean Winchester, Angry Kissing, Castiel and Dean Winchester Fight, Castiel and Dean Winchester First Meet, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel is Not Innocent, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Dean Can't Cope, Dean Misses Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Dean Winchester, Portals, Post-Finale, Post-Season/Series 12, Prisoner Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemminycricket/pseuds/Gemminycricket
Summary: ((SET AFTER SEASON 12 FINALE! SPOILERS IN SUMMARY AND IN STORY!))'There, in the grey, desolate landscape of a world devastated by the war between Heaven and Hell, Dean saw Castiel alive and battling demons... But Lucifer had killed the angel before his very eyes only a few weeks prior.'Dean, grief stricken after Cas' death, pulls the Castiel of an alternate universe through the portal back to his own world without thinking of the consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

It was chaos. Though Dean realised he probably shouldn’t have expected anything less. It was a world ravaged by war; an Earth devastated by the angels of Heaven and the demons of Hell. He recognised that same grey, desolate wasteland from his first journey beyond the portal, but now the empty landscape was filled with demonic creatures and angels adorned in what Dean could only guess was heavenly armour.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

The two armies clashed, causing lightning to strike overhead, which was promptly followed by a thunderous echo that almost deafened Dean. It was a flurry of bodies swarming together, moving so swiftly that it became impossible to follow who was who, and more impossible still to determine which of the two hoards was winning the battle. There were brief flashes of silver as angel blades were used to strike the demons dead, and bright explosions of blue as the angels exerted their power against their enemies. But there too came an abundance of dancing red and black as the demons tore into their foes.

Demons had always been fearful entities, and Dean often made a point to never underestimate them. He’d always believed that their ability to hide behind the innocent faces of a mortal body was what made them so unsettling—they could be anywhere, inside anyone, and it could be impossible to tell. But now Dean had been proven wrong. This was worse. Here they appeared truly devilish; their soulless black eyes paired with pointed teeth and horns, just as Cas had described. Only this was far worse than his imagination had envisaged.

Worse because he’d seen something just like them before, back when his soul was trapped and tortured in Hell. These creatures were the things of his worst nightmares. They were the memory of his 40 years in Hell; being torn apart and tormented endlessly, all the while begging desperately not to exist anymore because the agony was more than he could endure.

For a brief second, the sight of the demons left him frozen in place. But then Sam was shouting at him, shaking his shoulder roughly to force him to move. Dean stumbled to the side, back towards the portal. It was already beginning to seal shut, the glowing edges creeping inward; the sliver of their world between them thinning until he almost couldn’t see it anymore.

Ever since Jack had disappeared portals had been opening and closing in various locations around the country. He and Sam had been making ways to follow them but it was impossible to keep up. The portals oftentimes disappeared just as abruptly as they appeared, opening one second and closing the next before anyone even had the chance to process what they had seen. Similarly, there was simply no telling when and where they would show up. There was no discernible pattern in their whereabouts, though Sam had tirelessly searched for one. He could only theorize that they came as Jack left, or perhaps Jack himself had no control over the splits in time and space. Maybe they existed as a product of his abilities. A consequence of using a power too strong for this world.

The brothers had, on occasion, found portals before their eventual close, and they’d fearlessly—or perhaps foolishly—entered them in an attempt to free their mother from the alternate universe and from Lucifer’s clutches. Dean knew that they both, deep down, were starting to believe that Mary was long gone—that Lucifer would have ripped her apart upon the portal closing.

But Dean, ultimately, refused to hear of it.

Mary had to be alive, because he needed her to be. And he couldn’t bear to live without trying to find her. For him, as good as dead wasn’t enough. He needed to see for himself whether she was well and truly alive or dead. Though he was, quite honestly, unprepared to find out one way or the other. And all of Sam’s harsh rationalisations hadn’t been deemed enough to give up just yet—Sam still resented himself for never searching for Dean when he and Cas had been swept away to Purgatory. He wasn’t about to repeat history now with his mother. No matter how long it took.

It had been weeks, and they had yet to find her.

Unfortunately, just as the timing and the locations of the portals was spontaneous, the worlds they led to were equally impulsive. There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to where the rips led them, and so they had ventured many times to worlds quite like their own, but just a little different. It was disconcerting in itself to see a timeline in which John had purchased the god-awful hippy van instead of the Impala, or a universe in which Sam and Dean had been born Samantha and Deanna. Dean was sure there were far more worlds lying in wait just beyond the realms of his reality, but he was far from eager to see them.

However, they had yet to run across another Earth quite as drastic as the one they were in now. Apparently the worst world—the one well and truly in ruins—was the one in which they had never existed—no other had yet resembled the apocalypse. And Dean couldn’t even begin to fathom what that could mean. And he didn’t wish to remember how it was, somehow, someway, still _this_ world that his mother had been pulled into and trapped inside.

Sam was still clutching tightly onto his sleeve, pushing him toward the portal, but then Dean saw him. There, amongst the battling swarm of angels, was a dark-haired man wearing a trench coat, whose tie was twisted the wrong way round. There was Cas, angel blade in hand, his face and clothes splattered with demon blood and dusted with the ash of Earth.

There was Cas… Cas who had only a few weeks prior been killed by Lucifer before his very eyes.

Dean had seen—with every instinct and need in his body screaming at him to stop it—the dying ebb of Castiel’s grace as his eyes flashed white before fading away into nothing.

Dean had knelt before the empty shell of Castiel’s body, the angel’s broken and skeletal wings permanently etched into the dirt, and had looked upon his lifeless face, urging for it not to be real.

Dean had spent each night since praying for him to be alive, but each desperate word had apparently fallen onto deaf ears, because Cas had never returned to him.

Dean had become willing to accept miracles, if only to receive one just this once. But it appeared that his refusal to believe in miracles every day prior had stripped him of his chance to get one now.

Castiel had died, leaving him to exist only in Dean’s memory, and in every waking moment of Dean’s thoughts. Dean always missed him. Always. No matter where he was or what he was doing, there remained the emptiness of where Cas used to be. In every action there shadowed thoughts of Castiel, reminding him he was gone, never to return.

And Dean hated it.

Oftentimes he wished to be numb because at least then he could escape the dark ebb of depression that constantly seeped in from the back of his mind. If he was numb then he could stop feeling this pain. He could power on as he had always tried to do. Every loss he’d suffered thus far—of which there were many—had struck Dean down to his knees; and left him fearful. Not for his own life, but rather for those who hadn’t yet passed. Because while he saved many lives, he also seemed to be the end of many others, especially those he cared so deeply about. People he loved. And it seemed that even Cas wasn’t invulnerable to this rule; after having already lost so much for the sake of the Winchesters, and now his life too.

Dean had never given much thought to the state of Castiel’s wings before he had seen the shattering truth in the shadow beneath Cas’ back. He’d known they were broken and powerless, incapable of flight, but he had never quite understood the extent of it. Or even wondered if they hurt. It never occurred to him to ask, even upon seeing the damaged scorch marks left from the demise of other angels. And for that he felt ashamed. Selfish, even. Because it wasn’t as if he didn’t care—he cared more than what any friend probably should—but he still never considered the idea of simply turning to Cas and asking; “are you in pain? Do you miss it—being able to fly?” Though in retrospect Dean began to think that maybe he hadn’t asked because he’d always feared the answer Cas would never have forced him to hear, but knew to be true. That answer being that he was and he did.

Dean had had nothing but time to dwell over these reflections and cruel wonderings, which was more reason for him to want to lobotomise his grief. He’d rather the torment of feeling nothing at all to feeling everything all at once. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be staring at Castiel now with all rationality being swept out of his grasp.

His legs became suddenly void of strength; his knees barely keeping him upright. His heart was hammering; the sudden adrenaline sending his blood coursing through his veins.  It was dizzying. There he suddenly became conflicted as to what he should and should not believe. The sight of that familiar coat fed into a false hope that Dean had spent all this time trying to dissipate. Where Castiel had come back before, Dean was still coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t coming back again. But to see him—or rather the striking resemblance of him—here, changed something, and made Dean do something very, very stupid.

As Castiel was edged to the outskirts of the dwindling mass of angels and demons, Dean shook his sleeve free from Sam’s grasp and pursued the angel. He took hold of Castiel’s arm and pulled. It was no easy feat, as the angel was far stronger than him, but the action startled Cas enough that he became movable and he hadn’t any opportunity to plant his feet. It happened swiftly—so fast in fact that even Dean himself hadn’t yet made sense of what he was doing.

But suddenly there they were; Sam, Dean, and Castiel, all together on the other side of the portal as it sealed shut.

 The world of the apocalypse was no longer in their sights, and it was impossible to say when and if they would ever see it again. And instead of Mary, they now had the Castiel from another dimension. The trio scurried apart and took to their feet, Sam instinctively reaching for his brother. Dean still hadn’t begun to comprehend what was happening, and what choices had led to this, but the chance eluded him still as Castiel retrieved his angel blade and held it poised in warning.

Sam raised his hands in immediate surrender, and Dean watched him, perplexed by the obvious tension in his expression and in his forever brooding posture. Sam was afraid of Castiel. Dean didn’t have the good sense to feel the same. After all, this was _Cas_.

Castiel’s intense blue eyes flashed dangerous—quite literally—as his grace glistened in preparation to exert a power that could easily wipe the two of them out of existence. Dean hadn’t stopped to consider that this version of Castiel may never have been weakened by losing his grace and only gaining a portion of it back. But Sam already had, and he took two cautious steps back. He hissed at Dean, insisting he do the same. But Dean didn’t. Instead, he did the exact opposite and took two reckless steps forward.

“Cas—” he started, his voice stern.

“Dean, stop,” Sam cautioned, “Jimmy is a vessel… that doesn’t mean Cas is in it.”

“Bullshit,” Dean rejected the notion immediately. He knew Castiel when he saw him—albeit a little different to how he remembered him last. This was Cas, and there was nothing that could, or would, indicate otherwise. It didn’t matter how the angel now carried himself much the same way a proficient and unwavering soldier would—the way he had all those years ago upon their first meeting. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t any sign to suggest that Cas even recognised them. There came no acknowledgement other than disdain, or perhaps, worse still, complete disinclination—as though killing them would be as trivial as swatting a fly. No matter what he saw at the forefront, Dean knew that Castiel was there somewhere deep within; even if the angel didn’t know it yet.

“You can’t know that for sure,” Sam said. As he took an additional three steps back, Dean took a juxtaposed three steps forward.

By now the space between he and Cas was slim to none, and yet the angel hadn’t made a move to strike. Briefly, Dean felt almost chuffed by this. Mollified. He got the sense that the miracle he had long ago asked for had somehow been granted to him after all. But the closer he got, the wilder Cas appeared. The Impala’s headlights highlighted the stains of blood and dirt on Castiel’s clothes, which, though not unusual or something Dean had never seen before, somehow made him into something war ravaged and cold. Overtime, Dean’s Castiel had slowly started to perceive and understand appearances, and even went so far as to take more care with his own by keeping clean and presentable.

This Castiel either didn’t notice, or, more likely, simply didn’t care.

Perhaps Sam couldn’t see the humanity in Cas that Dean was so desperately searching for; and was so sure he would find.

Castiel’s stance remained poised with the angel blade clasped firmly in his white knuckled fist, watching Dean as the hunter approached him. Dean could see, as the blue flare of grace faded from Castiel’s eyes, that the angel was trying to take in his surroundings. His gaze was distant, as though he were really looking beyond Dean’s shoulder, past Sam, at the canopy of trees that were swaying softly in the breeze. As Dean paused, all that could be heard was the rustle of leaves and the whisper of icy wind. Somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight, the wings beating like a heart stuttering until still.

 In the dark, the world suddenly seemed ominous. And Dean got the distinct feeling of being trapped with a wild animal.

“Cas?” Dean was hesitant. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure anymore that he’d find what he was looking for. “Do you know where you are?”

Castiel looked at him. The flat emptiness of his eyes startled Dean, and he heard the shuffle of his brother’s feet as he took yet another instinctual step backwards.

“Cas, buddy? It’s Earth, okay? You know it…You’ve seen it before,” Dean said gently.

“Dean—” Sam echoed.

Dean ignored him and cautiously raised a hand, though he hadn’t yet considered his intentions. He just needed to know Cas was real. Though he hadn’t decided whether to embrace him or to place a protective hand on his shoulder. Maybe just to touch the material of his coat would be enough to convince Dean that Cas was well and truly there. And maybe it would be enough for Castiel too; to convince him that Dean, too, was real. Dean hoped Cas would recognise him, even if he wasn’t sure why or where from.

Instead, as Dean finally touched the sleeve of Castiel’s trench coat, the angel struck him with a single back hand punch that sent him flying. The air was ripped from Dean’s lungs at the impact to his gut, and he landed, hard, some feet away. The back of his head collided with the base of a tree and immediately he could feel blood dripping through his hair. Lightheaded, he felt for the wound and his fingers came back warm and a slick, dark red, but he couldn’t tell the severity of his injury from touch alone. He saw the shadow of Castiel as he advanced on Sam, blade ready to strike with no hesitation or remorse—it didn’t seem to matter that they were human. Castiel had no regard for God’s creations. Sam and Dean were in the way, and Cas was not about to let that stand. Particularly after they had dragged him to a world so unlike his own.

“Cas! No!” Dean yelled and staggered to his feet.

In the dark, it was near impossible to tell what followed from the shapes of the two men as they fought, though Dean could faintly recognise the looming height of Sam’s shadow. Dust kicked up below their feet in a cloud at their ankles, and Dean heard the shifting of rocks beneath their shoes. Still, everything seemed to be happening so fast while he was moving too slow.

Dean faintly thought—with his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach—that Cas was going to kill Sam. An idea that had long before been rejected. Dean had thought it impossible; ridiculous, even. Because Cas would never dare hurt Sam. He’d never even consider it, no matter the circumstance; the two of them had come too far, were too close of friends, too important to one another, to even be led to such a tragedy against their will.

Sometimes Dean had even envied Sam for the bond he shared with Cas. It was too pure, almost. It was uncomplicated and kind and forgiving. What Dean shared with Castiel was something else entirely. No descriptor proved appropriate for their… whatever they were. And for a long time, Dean hadn’t found it in him to say they were _just_ friends. Sometimes the complexity of it all was tiring, yet Dean had never found himself wanting it any other way. He never wanted Cas to change. Though maybe he had wanted _more_. And that was a very big… and a very invalid… maybe, because, in truth, Dean had long ago realised that the question had already been answered. It was the very reason why he was finding it so hard—impossible, and agonising,—to say goodbye.

How could he say goodbye to someone he hadn’t yet confided his love to? It would feel and sound hollow, because there was more weight to the word than he had allowed himself to let on. Because Cas, wherever he was, if he could hear him somehow—which Dean wanted, but couldn’t, believe—wouldn’t understand what it truly meant. He wouldn’t know just how damn hard it was letting go.

As Sam and Cas fought, he couldn’t help but think this, and wish again, dreadfully, that things had gone differently. That time and circumstance hadn’t somehow gotten them here with Cas about to kill his brother. Because he knew, if push came to shove, he wouldn’t have any choice but to stop him, no matter the cost—even if it meant killing the angel. His best friend. His soulmate—for lack of a better word.

“Cas!” Dean shouted again, his throat dry and voice hoarse.

He wrapped himself around Castiel from behind in an attempt to pin his arms down, but the angel’s strength was undeniable as he thrust his head back against Dean’s nose; possibly breaking it. The pain was momentarily blinding, and Dean stumbled backwards on his feet. Sam didn’t hold back in his retaliation; he didn’t need to. As the hunter’s fist struck Castiel’s face, the impact was almost indiscernible as Cas hardly faltered, yet Sam’s knuckles were already bloodied. Dean regained his balance and stepped forward, the blood from his nose staining his lip, and Cas turned with one quick, aggressive motion. Castiel’s hand abruptly grabbed for Dean’s throat, and he lifted the hunter clean from his feet and held him there effortlessly. His other hand brought the angel blade to Dean’s cheek and cut across his skin with careful precision.

Was Castiel— _this_ Castiel—so maniacal he would want to make them hurt first before killing them? Was that what Cas had become? Or worse… was that what he had _always_ been?

Dean winced as Castiel’s grip tightened on his throat and his fingers dug into his windpipe. Already he could feel his face growing hot, though surely it would very quickly turn cold as the life was squeezed out of him. Dean tugged at Castiel’s sleeve, and he thought how the material of this coat was once the greatest comfort, but now it was tainted by the shell of the person wearing it. Sam quickly took advantage of Castiel’s inattentiveness and locked a singular Enochian handcuff around one of his wrists. Cas thrust his elbow back into Sam, throwing the younger Winchester toward the Impala. It was distraction enough for Dean to kick against Castiel’s knee, forcing him to buckle. Dean barely just slipped from Castiel’s grasp, and he fell in a heap in the dirt, gasping for air, but his throat still felt constricted and ached from the effort.

“Why are you holding back?” Castiel asked, perplexed. He gazed down upon Dean with that same confused tilt of his head and raised brow in absolute wonderment that Dean had oftentimes seen before. That look could almost be considered Castiel’s natural state; as the world, and all of life’s little intricacies, had always left him astounded. Cas had always been curious. Only now did Dean realise how much more there was to teach him. How much he had longed to see that inquisitive expression again.

Only now did he see just how it endeared him.

And again he felt that inescapable fear of letting go and forgetting him. He couldn’t do it.

“Cas, please,” Dean rasped. He held up a blood-smeared hand, pleading for him to stop.

“Why—” Cas tried to ask again. There was something manic in his voice this time. He needed to understand.

Dean thought that perhaps nobody in Castiel’s life had ever shown mercy or weakness before. Neither the angels nor the demons ever hesitated to kill. Maybe, for the first time, Cas was fighting someone who didn’t wish to kill him.

And maybe that scared him.

Castiel’s eyes flashed an astonishing blue that was so bright that Dean started to turn and look away, one trembling hand rising to cover his eyes. He could only just see Sam as he emerged from behind Castiel’s shoulder and hastily forced the second cuff around Castiel’s other wrist. Instantly, the light burnt out from Castiel’s eyes as his powers diminished; stripped away from him by the Enochian sigils etched into the metal. Cas stared at his hands, startled at the sudden loss of control and the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability. Dean clumsily rose and forced the blade free from Castiel’s hand and then withdrew from him to Sam’s side.

Sam dabbed at the split in his lip with the back of his hand and shifted hastily from one foot to the other. It was apparent that he was at a loss as to what he ought to do. Which was disquieting since Dean was depending on his brother for answers. After all, it was no secret that Sam was the smarter of the two, and probably the more reasonable and grounded as well. Dean knew he could always turn to him. But this time Sam wasn’t just unsure, he was troubled too.

“So… what now?” Dean asked breathily. He pressed his sleeve to his bleeding nose and winced at the touch. Together they looked a sight—Sam’s lip busted and his knuckles swollen and bloody. Dean with his bruised and bleeding nose, his hair crusted in drying blood from the cut to the back of his head, the gash on his cheek stinging, and, he assumed, with the faint imprint of Castiel’s hand around his sore throat.

Sam shook his head and strode forward without giving Dean the benefit of a response. He grabbed Cas’ arm and pulled him toward the Impala. Together they passed Dean by and left him to follow at his own pace. Surprisingly, Cas didn’t attempt to fight them, though the look of concentration and absolute frustration suggested that he was still attempting to fly off, but the cuffs were successfully keeping him in place. Though of course it was hard to say how long that would last. Somehow Cas was bound to find an escape. It was just painful to think that Cas would have the need to find one from them in the first place.

Dean settled himself in the driver’s seat and waited for Sam to force Castiel into the backseat before joining him at his side. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, his green eyes locking with blue. Castiel’s glare was filled with torment and rage, like there had never been any love or compassion behind those eyes before. Dean swiftly looked away. Sam pulled his door shut with a little more force than was necessary and switched the radio on. The station crackled and whirred as the signal faded in and out the further they drove down the winding road toward the highway. The sound put Dean on edge.

Not one of the men volunteered to speak, though Dean was sure there was plenty, if not too much, to say. He had questions he wished to asked, but had little hope would be answered. He wanted to see what Castiel remembered—if there was a chance that maybe he had all along been receptive to the doppelganger version of himself that Dean had fallen in love with. Maybe the angels had always sensed the existence of other dimensions and unexplored timelines but just had the good sense not to touch them. Maybe this Cas had always known there was another Cas, and maybe he’d be eager to know him, if even just through Sam and Dean’s recollections.

There had to be hope, didn’t there? Dean had been faced with fate many times, and had even gone so far as to escape it… yet he still thought of it with scepticism. Like the concept was too far beyond his understanding, or too unfair to accept. But he had to think that he had seen Castiel there in that battlefield for a reason. That in a world full of coincidence, this was the one thing that was meant to be.

And, in his unwillingness to say goodbye, Dean drove Castiel home and didn’t ask him anything. He didn’t look at him again. He just wanted this hour, just this one, to pretend that things were the way that had once been.

That this Castiel was his.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean stood in the doorway and watched Sam tighten the chains around Castiel’s torso. The angel seemed so small there in the singular chair in the middle of that enormous room. Under the bright lights the trench coat practically swallowed him, turning him into this defenceless, almost pitiable victim. Like he were entirely undeserving of this kind of treatment. As if their efforts to keep him from escaping or from causing either of them any more harm was unwarranted, and actually quite cruel. Dean even considered removing the chains and cuffs, if not just to take away the distress of seeing his friend like this. But realistically he knew the idea was idiotic at best and suicidal at worst.

Castiel couldn’t be trusted.

But it seemed as if Cas knew Dean _wanted_ to trust him. Castiel looked to Dean pleadingly, trying to manipulate him and undermine his better judgement—like he recognised himself as Dean’s biggest weakness. Whether he understood how that came to be was a question upon itself, and Dean was determined now to find out for sure. He withdrew from the doorway and took careful steps into the room. Sam was circling Castiel with holy oil as an added, and probably necessary, precaution; the cuffs and chains and warding were expected to hold up—at least for now—but neither of them were willing to take any chances. It was risky enough for an apathetic angel to be loose with them in the bunker, but riskier still for him to end up anywhere in a world from which he didn’t originate. There was no telling where he could go or what he might do had he the opportunity.

Sam set the jug of holy oil aside and stood upright. Dean fished a lighter from his own pocket and held it up for Castiel to see, waving it back and forth slowly. “We light this? You’ll never get out of here,” Dean warned him. He flicked the lighter open and poised his thumb in preparation to use it if need be.

Castiel stared at them and remained stoically silent, his lips pressed into a firm, thin line. For only a second he tilted his head to the left in mild amusement, and Dean swallowed hard against a lump in his throat. Castiel wasn’t worried. He was confident at worst, and indifferent at best. Either way, he still felt no inclination to speak.

“You know who you are, don’t you? You know why you’re here?” Dean started.

Castiel didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes looked directly into Dean’s, yet they remained empty. Unfeeling. Startled, Dean realised that Cas’ earlier attempts to manipulate him had nothing to do with letting him go… he just wanted to mess with him. To manipulate him just because he could. Because he suspected—accurately—that it would hurt the hunter, perhaps even more than what any physical attack ever could.

“Dean—” Sam cleared his throat and gestured for Dean to follow him out of the room.

Dean frowned but trailed after him, closing the door between them and Castiel though there still remained the possibility that he could hear them. After all, he was a celestial being; it was hard to distinguish what his limitations were, especially now when he had never been tainted by weakness before. They walked to the end of the hall and then stopped. Sam ran his hand down his face and rubbed his jaw, lost in thought as he turned to his older brother. And then he was angry.

“What were you thinking, Dean?” Sam asked him abruptly.

Dean stood his ground whilst Sam again shifted from foot to foot. He should have suspected that Sam wasn’t so much troubled than he was furious, considering the goal had been clear all along: Get in, get Mary, and get out. They had agreed early on that they would avoid tampering with these alternate worlds wherever they could. After all they had been through, they knew by now that it was never wise to touch what they didn’t understand. And where other worlds were concerned, they didn’t need the Winchesters to intrude and change the natural order of things.

It wasn’t their place to change what had to be outside of their control, and so they set out only to retrieve their mother and bring her home where she belonged. Sam had expressed time and time again the dangers of time travel or world hopping, and of jumping from timeline to timeline and from place to place. He had babbled endlessly about the postulations around chaos theory… the whole kill a butterfly and trigger a storm nonsense that Dean had stopped listening to not long after the spiel started. Whenever Sam had resumed his tirade Dean had feigned some kind of interest but hadn’t really been taking in a word of it. He hadn’t felt any need to at the time. Because he wasn’t so concerned with the state of worlds that wasn’t his own—they were alternate dimensions for a reason. They’d come into existence as a product of a decision never made or a road not taken. Maybe there was even a world in which he’d be happier, yet Dean had already rejected the idea, knowing that here—this world. This sad, broken, little world—was home. All he had wanted was to save Mary. Everything else, as far as he was concerned, didn’t matter.

And then there came Castiel. And suddenly everything was different. Everything changed.

“What you did… that was outright stupid. We agreed not to mess with this stuff, remember? As soon as portals started opening I told you why we couldn’t interfere,” Sam continued, his voice steadily growing louder and deeper.

Dean nodded plainly and stared at his feet. Sam was right. He had been stupid. They had come up with certain rules and had agreed to follow them. He understood why it would be wrong to break them. But this was different. And he didn’t feel ready to apologise for it.

“I told you not to touch anything, and then you go and drag an angel back into our world. After what we’ve already come to know about cosmic consequences… don’t you think there _will_ be some after something like this?”

Dean felt a tightness in his chest that refused to alleviate. Each breath in seemed shallow and cold and he was very quickly unaware of anything else. For all he knew, Sam could have still been rambling, and Dean was just too lost to hear him. And it didn’t seem to matter, anyhow. Dean understood plenty, but the threat of repercussions, whilst serious, didn’t scare him the way they should.

“Are you even listening to me?” Sam asked, affronted.

“I dunno. Maybe,” Dean mumbled.

“Got anything to say?” Sam persisted.

Dean shrugged his shoulders noncommittedly and tried to count the number of thin cracks in the tiles below his feet. Arguing seemed an exhausting idea, and he wasn’t in any condition to participate. Tentatively, he touched the bridge of his nose with his fingertips and winced at the sharp pain, but he supposed it wasn’t broken, just badly bruised. As for the back of his head, well, from what he could tell the bleeding had stopped shortly after getting into the Impala. His biggest concern was actually the state of his neck—he hadn’t yet had the chance to inspect his skin in the mirror. He couldn’t be sure whether evidence of Castiel’s hand remained imprinted around his throat. He hoped not.

“Dean!” Sam barked finally, his patience had begun to wane.

“I don’t know, Sam. Alright?” Dean muttered, shrugging again, “It’s…” He swallowed hard before trying again, “Cas.”

There was a long, heavy silence before Sam finally let out a dejected sigh. Dean looked up to meet his eye and saw that Sam’s expression had softened considerably. There still loomed the dread of what more there was to come and where Dean’s decision could possibly lead them, but, little by little, it was being buried beneath his sympathy. Sam placed a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Dean got the distinct feeling of being more like the little brother, and though this wasn’t the first time, he was still a little taken aback. He’d gotten so used to being the big, protective brother, mother, and father to Sam that it still felt foreign to him whenever their roles somehow became reversed. Even after all these years, and after all they had been through, Dean never thought he was someone worth taking care of.

“I get it,” Sam said.

Dean laughed quietly. Sadly. Sam knew of the pain, but not of the extent. There was no way he could—not when his love for Cas differed from Dean’s. His love was familial, a kinship; a best friends who would conquer the world for one another kind of love. Their love was sitting across from one another over open books, Sam with his third cup of coffee and Cas only halfway through his first. It was talking aimlessly for hours on end, Sam asking questions on science and history and philosophy, and Cas asking questions on literature and media and sociology.

And maybe Dean’s love for Castiel had never really been reciprocated. And Dean decided that was fair. Though a part of him believed it weren’t true. It felt false on his own tongue to say that there hadn’t ever been _something_ —Cas hadn’t understood many things, and probably hadn’t felt everything there was to feel, but Dean just knew that Cas had felt _that_ kind of love. Deep down maybe… Or maybe not so deep after all.

But now Dean would never know for sure. He could never ask.

His—or their—love was different. It was a ‘conquer the world for each other or die together in it’ kind of love. Their love was sitting side by side in front of the muted TV, together sipping beer at the same pace, not quite touching at the shoulders but eventually at the ankles as they inevitably knotted together. It was the comfortable silences on long drives to nowhere; Castiel’s favourite songs from Dean’s collection playing on the stereo. It was in the way they cared for one another when they each refused to—or simply couldn’t—care about themselves. It was in shameless, lingering looks and in secret wonderings. And in a bond so real and so profound Dean felt like he could almost see and touch it. Because it was a sensation so solid in his chest, he could hardly deny the possibility that he really could were he to just reach out and try.

Sam couldn’t ‘get it’. Though Dean knew he would try. And he didn’t blame him for not understanding. Yet he was still left with a sense of loneliness. Isolation that near robbed him of breath. He had little doubt that Cas would feel it too, were he still alive to feel anything at all.

Dean cleared his throat and touched his nose again. It seemed easier to distract himself from the emotional wounds by tending only to the physical ones. He looked to the ground again, and concluded that there were nineteen miniscule cracks in the tiles—and probably far more that were too small for the naked eye to see.

“Maybe we can reason with him,” Sam suggested.

“Didn’t exactly seem willing to debate before though, did he?”

“Well… no. But maybe he’ll be more open to it now? I mean, he isn’t the _same_ , but there’s got to be something there. Like, _our_ Cas and _this_ Cas are made from the same mould, right?”

“I don’t know… maybe, I guess,” Dean allowed, but he remained doubtful. That hour he had spent pretending had long since passed. But he wanted to go back. To see him again like time had rewound, or had been rewritten entirely.

“There’s got to be something he resonates with,” Sam decided. He turned to walk back the way they came but Dean grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“I should talk to him first. Alone,” Dean insisted.

“Are you kidding?”

“No?”

“Are you stupid?”

“Maybe?”

“Are you suicidal?”

“Yeah?”

“Dean,” Sam groaned, exasperated and fretful.

“We’ve got him locked up like he’s in Guantanamo,” Dean pointed out, “what’s he gonna do? Huh?”

Sam slowly shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and then back again. Dean let his hand fall away from Sam’s arm. Already he was edging his way back down the corridor, knowing Sam wasn’t going to try and stop him.

“Okay. But whatever he says, don’t let him free,” Sam warned finally.

With Sam’s permission, Dean hastened his pace and reached for the door handle. “Yeah, like I’d do something that stupid,” he scoffed but made a face when Sam wasn’t looking. He hadn’t any need to be honest. They both knew that Dean wasn’t so much himself anymore—or maybe he was actually more himself than he had ever been; it was a little hard to tell when his life had never been consistent for long enough a time to make an accurate assessment. What was really the default setting for him? Near constant grief? Or the sparse moments of clarity and contentment in between?

Dean stepped back into the room and let the door creep shut behind him. It closed with a quiet and final click, and suddenly it was just the two of them. That same sense of entrapment was already starting to return; like Cas was the predator and he was the prey. The chains around Castiel’s upper body, from where Dean stood, seemed less like a trap and more like a short leash that, with a little force, was bound to get longer—inch by inch.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean said, “I’m not the enemy here.”                          

For a moment Dean didn’t expect Castiel to speak, considering he had hardly said ten words since they had met. But then Cas tried to lean forward in his chair and the chain pulled tighter around his torso. Were he human, he undoubtedly wouldn’t be able to breathe. “For someone who claims not to be my enemy, you sure made a point of stripping me of my power and taking me prisoner,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

Dean blinked. Castiel’s point was admittedly valid, even if he had ten arguments to overthrow it: one being that Cas had been the first to throw a punch. “Don’t take it personally… think of it as a precaution,” Dean replied. He dragged a chair from the corner of the room and placed it directly across from Castiel, with a reasonable distance between them. He sat down and waited.

This time Cas was unwilling to speak. He stubbornly leaned back in his chair and the chains eased off his chest.

Dean sighed heavily and dipped his head before addressing the angel. “Cas—”

“Castiel,” Cas interrupted with a hiss, correcting him.

Dean looked up, startled. “What?”

“My name is _Castiel_ ,” he clarified.

“Does Cas offend you or something?” Dean frowned.

“It isn’t my name,” Cas stated plainly, “you’ve already taken me captive, there’s no need to demean me further.”

Dean nodded faintly and his hands gripped tightly onto his knees. He was inexplicably cut by this. “Right. _Castiel_. Do you know where you are?”

“What exactly do you mean? Do you mean this room?  This place? This world?” Castiel sounded sarcastic, but Dean couldn’t help but think the question was a genuine one.

“All of the above,” Dean insisted, feeling hopeful.

“You ask as though I should already know the answer,” Castiel again tilted his head to the side.

“Well maybe you should,” Dean said, his hope deflating, “it’s Earth. This is the bunker. This room—”

“Is a cell. That much I gathered on my own,” the angel interrupted, “though judging by the devils trap on the floor, I suppose it isn’t designed to contain my kind.”

Dean retrieved the lighter and used it to gesture to the wet ring of holy oil, “Nah, but that is, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I believe it has to actually be lit to be of any use to you,” Castiel challenged him.

Dean forced a brief smile and pocketed the lighter. He didn’t wish to use it and they both knew it. Dean was unwilling to build that incorruptible barrier between them—he didn’t want to see Cas through that horrid curtain of flame.

“So you don’t recognise Earth?” Dean asked.

Castiel hesitated and diverted his gaze, “I do. But so much time as passed.”

“How long?”

Castiel looked up, and his stare was piercing, “Too long.”

“Well, that’s ominous,” Dean muttered and cleared his throat. “You come from a world in which my brother and I were never born. And it has been destroyed by a war between the God Squad and Team Satan, right?”

Castiel was silent and still.

“But here? Sam and I were destined to end the world. To be dress-ups for your brothers, Michael and Lucifer. To be the vessels that bring on the apocalypse. Except we changed it. We… and Cas. Our Cas. We changed destiny and saved the world.”

“Destiny can’t be changed. It can’t be rewritten.”

“It can. We did it,” Dean told him.

“So you think my world is in chaos purely because nobody tried to change it?” Castiel asked in disbelief, “two entire armies? And the few humans that remain? And no one tried to escape fate?”

“I couldn’t tell you. It isn’t my war,” Dean said. “Where’s God in all of this?” He wondered.

Castiel squirmed indignantly and the chains rattled, “He was…‘occupied elsewhere’,” he muttered, “according to Michael at least.”

“Michael is there?”

“He is leading the angels in the war against demons,” Castiel explained dismissively, “where is God in all of _this_?”

“Occupied elsewhere,” Dean said, “and I know that for certain.”

“How? How could _you_ know?” Castiel spat.

“I met Him,” Dean shrugged, “He came for The Darkness. His sister.”

“And before that?  Where was He?” Castiel demanded to know. As he spoke, he leaned ever closer until the chains began to slip free. As Dean had predicted earlier, the short leash was becoming longer still, inch by inch.

Dean warily stood from his chair and circled Castiel, remaining on the outside of the unlit ring of holy oil. He stopped at Castiel’s back and hesitated a moment before stepping inside the circle. Castiel continued to shift as he tried to look back at him, and he repeated his question, his tone growing more aggressive each time he asked and Dean didn’t answer. The chains slipped again and Dean quickly grabbed them and pulled them back. As he worked to tighten them, his hands brushed against Castiel’s. Dean felt empty.

“Where was He?!” Castiel shouted. He sounded so desperate, the words almost like a broken cry.

“Not here,” Dean answered finally. He left his hand there against Cas’ skin for a few moments longer, “He didn’t care, Cas…tiel. He decided it was a mess we made and should clean up ourselves. He granted us a few minor ‘miracles’ and that was that.”

Castiel scoffed and dipped his head sadly. The angel fell slack and Dean finished securing the chains before stepping away. “The fact that he granted _you_ anything… it’s…” Castiel fell silent, his eyes glistening and dejected. It became obvious to Dean that Cas and Castiel both had held so much hope for their father. They had both believed in His goodness. Their faith, though tested, had held strong despite each thread of hope breaking.

“It’s not fair. I know,” Dean said, sympathetic. He slowly sunk back down into his chair.

There was a long, heavy silence and Castiel didn’t move at all. Though Dean tried, he couldn’t meet his eye. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and resisted the temptation to stand and walk right up to the angel, and to put his arms around him. Dean couldn’t think how he should try to console him; assuming he should even try at all.

“If it means anything at all… God brought you back a couple times. Well, you from this world, anyway,” Dean said eventually.

“Why?” Castiel whispered hopelessly.

“I guess God knew I needed him,” Dean said gently. He looked to the floor, but here there weren’t any cracks there to count.

“Then what do you need me for?” Castiel asked.

Dean took a deep breath in and stood to pace, “You look like him.”

“So?”

“He’s dead,” Dean said. It sounded too final. And so very wrong. And he suddenly realised he hadn’t said it before. Where Sam had voiced the truth of it time and time again, Dean had held it in with bated breath. The words settled over them both, yet acceptance and release still evaded Dean—instead he felt more aggrieved. He shook his head, swallowing the words down as though he hadn’t said them at all.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel admitted, “you stopped the apocalypse. What use would he be to you? What use am I?”

“I…” He stalled. _‘I love him’_ Dean thought, but didn’t say. “He was my best friend. It isn’t about how I could use him. Or you. It’s just… I miss him.”

Castiel looked at him again with that same intrigue and confusion that Dean had often seen in Cas. The same head tilt and furrowed brow and slightly puckered lips. For a moment, the wildness faded from his eyes, leaving them an innocent and honest blue. And only for a second, Dean swore he recognised a flicker of sympathy—but this quickly passed; so swiftly in fact that Dean believed he may have imagined it.

“You know what? Never mind,” Dean uttered.

It was all too much, and Dean left for the door and didn’t look back. His heart was racing and he felt incredibly weak at the knees. All sensation left his face as his skin went cold. His chest heaved with quick and faint breaths. Dean brushed past Sam who called to him and tried hopelessly to follow at his heel, and went into the kitchen.

“Dean? What’s going on?” Sam asked, “What did he say? What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Dean dismissed him, focusing on the contents of the fridge as he sifted through it looking for beer. When he found none, he moved to the cabinet, trying to remember whether he had finished that bottle of whiskey or not. He quickly found the bottle that was roughly half full and tucked it under his arm.

“Dean—” Sam said knowingly, eyeing his brother cautiously.

“Seriously, Sam, can you quit shadowing me?” Dean muttered and walked to his bedroom. Sam followed.

“I thought we agreed you’d try and lay off the drink since—”

“Since what?! Are you really going to say it?!” Dean turned on him.

 _Since Cas died_. They were both thinking it. Though at the time of the ‘agreement’, Sam had never specified the reasoning behind his request—he hadn’t needed to.

Sam looked at him and stood frozen in place, and Dean closed his bedroom door between them. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Sam finally walked away a few minutes later as he couldn’t hear him out in the hallway. His brother knew when to leave him to his own troubles. Dean opened the bottle and tossed the cap aside, knowing he wouldn’t be needing it with only half a bottle to drown himself in. He settled himself on the edge of his bed, his room dim aside from the one bedside lamp he left switched on, and took to drinking steadily.

This continued long into the night, the bottle emptying as each hour passed until he set the finished bottle aside. The room seemed to have blurred edges as anything and everything lost its detail, his heavy lidded eyes passing over them with disinterest. It was all his but none of it seemed to matter anymore. It was his home, yet it felt too cold and empty when it was one person short. His hand fumbled for the light switch and he clumsily shifted further back onto his bed and lied down. He stared into the dark abyss above his head and idly considered the prospect of it falling down on him—in a way, it very much felt like it had already.

He’d seen Cas in that war ravaged wasteland, but it wasn’t Cas who had come home from there. It was someone else entirely. And Dean realised he now felt further from letting go and saying good bye than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and are intrigued for more.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean finally emerged from his room with numerous empty bottles from many previous drunken nights—last night included—clasped in each hand. He hadn’t realised how much had built up over time, the surface area of his desk and bedside tables cluttered with the remnants of multiple evenings spent intoxicated to some degree. He stepped into the kitchen and bypassed Sam to dispose of them, dropping them into the bin. They landed with a sharp clatter that made him wince. Dean rubbed his temples firmly and briefly shut his tired eyes, grimacing again when Sam began haphazardly washing dishes in the sink; cups hitting plates, and cutlery grinding against the metal basin.

“Do you have to be so heavy handed all the time?” Dean shuffled around Sam and reached for a mug. He paused only to peer into it and then decided it was clean. Or clean enough. Neither of them were very thorough with their dishes.

“Sorry,” Sam murmured and started to take more care, depositing the dishes into the sink one at a time. All that could be heard was the gentle slosh of water and soap. “Hungover?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Dean groaned. He sat down at the table after pouring himself some lukewarm coffee, and then stared into the cup without drinking it. His stomach churned. “Alcohol doesn’t seem to take the way it used to.”

“Maybe you’re getting old,” Sam theorised aloud.

“You take that back,” Dean said, casting a glare at his younger brother’s back, knowing he couldn’t see it.

Sam shrugged his shoulders. From where he was sitting, Dean could tell those were Sam’s brooding shoulders. Upon closer inspection, he also recognised Sam’s concerned ‘need-to-baby-my-older-brother’ head tilt. Dean rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his coffee without any real desire to drink it. He leaned his cheek against his open palm and his mouth fell partially slack, his chapped lips parting slightly. The smell of alcohol still lingered on his breath and he soon felt sick all over again. He let out an almost indiscernible moan. Maybe he really was getting old. It took more to get drunk, but very little to be horrendously hungover the next morning; and it now took him twice as long to bounce back. It was probably his body cursing him and telling him to wave the white flag, yet he continued to ignore it and took to drinking whenever the idea fancied him. And he was severely regretting it now. As he considered it, he realised he’d regretted it every time prior as well.

Sam rinsed off the last plate and carefully set it down on the dish rack before wiping his hands dry on a kitchen cloth. Dean watched on, only mildly interested, and that was only due to every other stimuli in the room being far too overwhelming for his sensitive eyes. Every surface was reflecting the ceiling lights back at him, feeding his pounding headache until he felt it in his stomach. When Sam turned to face him, he diverted his gaze to the tiles at his feet and had to repress the urge to be sick.

“I’d call you an idiot but I think you already know that,” Sam said strictly. He sat down across from Dean and tossed the cloth aside.

“Thanks for the vote of sympathy,” Dean sniffed with a hollow laugh.

Sam sighed. “You know you have that vote. After… everything…”

“Yeah. I know,” Dean said. He resumed rubbing his temples, pressing more firmly with his fingers until the headache actually worsened, “We got any aspirin? Or anything that’ll induce a week long coma?”

“Yeah,” Sam got up again and came back a minute later with a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. “Drink that instead. You’re dehydrated.”

Dean hummed dismissively and pushed his cup of coffee aside in disgust. Today just the smell of it was enough to make him all the more queasy. This feeling was made even worse by the thought of trying to eat something as Sam offered to make him some eggs on toast.  Dean shook his head and slipped the pills onto the back of his tongue and swallowed them with water.  He scrunched up his face when they immediately began to rise again in his throat.

“You’re sitting in a possible splash zone,” Dean warned, half-jokingly. Sam scooted his chair further to the side so he wasn’t sitting directly across from him, just to be safe.

Dean rested his head down against the table, his flush skin feeling slightly soothed by the cool wood. Sam cleared his throat. “I um, I tried talking to Cas this morning—” he began cautiously. Dean could hear the hesitance in his tone; like he were speaking to someone fragile and inherently bound to shatter at any given moment.

“ _Castiel_ ,” Dean corrected him. His voice came out muffled against the table, and his shoulders slumped.

“What?”

“He doesn’t like being called Cas. He finds it insulting,” Dean explained. His heart sunk as he remembered the venom in Castiel’s voice when he corrected him only hours earlier. Dean had instinctually taken to calling Castiel Cas almost from the very beginning, and had used the nickname fondly ever since. Until now. Now the word was something blasphemous. Like he were cursing him with a word far more vulgar. And this somehow left its mark on Cas—his Cas—and it wasn’t a mark that could be wiped clean.

 He _hated_ Castiel for that.

“Oh… well, okay then. Castiel. I tried talking to him, but I couldn’t get much out of him,” Sam continued. The ‘after-whatever-you-said-to-him-last-night’ was heavily implied as an unsaid afterthought, but Dean still heard it. And he didn’t appreciate it though he knew the point was valid. But really it was less his words and more his abrupt departure that had made all the difference.

“He isn’t exactly chatty,” Dean agreed, trying and failing to make light of the situation.

“Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Dean rubbed his heavy lidded eyes and finally sat upright in his chair. His stomach and head protested.

“What are we going to do with him? I mean, we can’t just let him go,” Sam said, mostly thinking aloud to himself. “The only thing I can think of is to take him back to his own world…”

“Easier said than done,” Dean concluded for him.

“Exactly. There’s no telling when we’ll find the next portal—”

“Or if it’ll take us to apocalypse-land,” Dean interjected. Without thinking he took a sip from his mug and spat the cold coffee back into it with a look of revulsion.

Sam made a face and near shuddered at the sight of Dean’s coffee stained dribble hanging off his chin. Clearly he found Dean disgusting. He tossed the slightly damp cloth to him and continued as Dean wiped his face. “Well, I think until then we’ll just have to keep him here,” Sam decided finally. He didn’t look or sound thrilled by the idea.

“No,” Dean said sternly.

“What choice do we have? Besides, he could be useful. I mean, it’s _his_ world, after all. He knows all there is to know about it, and, let’s face it, that’s intel we really need.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean insisted.

“Dean—” Sam protested.

“I just want to get rid of him, understand? I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to talk to him—”

“For mum, Dean. If we’re ever going to get her back, we’re gonna need him,” Sam told him. His word was final. Dean silently cursed him for making too many good points when he was too hungover to rebuff them.

Dean stood up from the table and emptied his coffee into the sink. He left the empty mug amidst the leftover suds from the washing Sam had just done. It was the most passive-aggressive he could think to be in that moment, with his head outright pounding like a jackhammer inside his skull and his stomach turning like he was inside a tumble dryer. He wasn’t in any position to say what he truly meant, and certainly not with any dignity. Dean was in pain, and it had blinded him.

“Do whatever you want, Sam. But I’m not playing any part in it,” Dean ground out, and parted his brother without looking back. He didn’t need to to know Sam was watching after him.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean looked up from his computer screen when he heard Sam’s approaching footsteps. Absently, he picked up his bottle of beer and drank the remainder of it in two swigs, and then turned his attention to his strung-out brother. Sam sank into the chair across from him, his body deflating in exhaustion and hopelessness, and looked to Dean pleadingly. For days now Sam had been coming and going from the basement, disappearing for an hour or two at a time as he tried unsuccessfully to speak with Castiel. The angel was simply disinterested in conversation, and, apparently, held his tongue no matter what Sam said. Nothing was enough to issue a response, though, to be quite honest, Dean didn’t know what Sam had tried—he hadn’t cared enough to ask, and had refused to listen whenever Sam brought it up on his own accord. Dean had meant it when he said he had no intention to play any part in this messed up prisoner interrogation; not when the prisoner was Castiel.

“I can’t get through to him,” Sam sighed dejectedly.

“Mmmm,” Dean hummed noncommittedly and turned his attention back to his laptop. He’d spent days searching for any suspicious news articles that could lead them to a hunt, but so far nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and no new sightings of interdimensional portals had been reported. Dean swore that all things that went bump in the night withdrew right when he was most eager to hunt them. And slowly this lack of distraction had turned him more to the drink—there was nothing else to pass the time.

“How many is that now?” Sam asked. Dean looked up again with a furrowed brow, confused. Sam tilted his head to gesture to the empty beer bottle.

“First one,” Dean lied.

“So if I were to check the trash I wouldn’t find more?” Sam asked knowingly, giving him a pointed look.

Dean ignored him and tried to focus on the news article he was attempting to read for the third time. Somehow his eyes still glazed over the words and he found himself staring at the same sentence without taking it in. He knew it was pointless. He knew there was nothing to find though he desperately wanted there to be. Dean wanted an excuse to leave for a while; to take his frustrations out on something without the burden of guilt He wanted to hurt something, because perhaps then he himself could stop feeling. Even if only for a little while. With his mind on a hunt, he often found he could get through most anything—it was the drive that kept him going when he really just wanted to stop.

“You need to talk to him,” Sam said finally.

“Funny, Sam. Real funny. Remember that conversation we had? You know the one where I told you I wasn’t getting involved?” Dean’s jaw tensed and he clenched one hand into a fist under the table where Sam couldn’t see it.

“Sorry, Dean, but you don’t get to back out,” Sam said through gritted teeth.

“Oh don’t I?”

“No. You don’t. You brought him here, Dean,” Sam reminded him. When Dean met his eye, Sam diverted his gaze guiltily; never having wanted to stoop so low to kick Dean when he was already down.

“Yeah, and I want to put him back, remember?”

“That might not be an option for a while. Or ever,” Sam sat up in his chair.

“What, because of the portal?” Dean scoffed.

“That’s exactly why. You know just as well as I do that our chances of finding that world again is slim to none,” Sam said reasonably.

“Then just dump him any old place,” Dean suggested. Sam sat frozen in place, startled by the venom in Dean’s voice. His shoulders collapsed forward when he realised he meant each and every word. That Dean was so far gone—too far.

“And what happens then, huh? We mess up some other world?” Sam asked dismally.

Dean stood up and took his empty bottle to the kitchen. Sam followed at his heel, still waiting for an answer; so sure that Dean was going to give him one, even if it were something he didn’t wish to hear. Dean dropped the bottle into the trash with a clatter of glass and then grabbed another from the fridge, much to Sam’s displeasure. Though Sam opted not to say a word in protest.

“What difference does it make? We break everything we touch, Sam. Even without trying,” Dean reminded him, his voice cold and distant.

“That’s not true and you know it,” Sam stood in the open doorway, his chest heaving. “We’re not dumping Castiel anywhere except where he belongs, whenever that time comes.”

“If you’re really so worried about these other dimensions, then why don’t we just kill him and be done with it?” Dean turned to face him head on, and took a long, purposeful drink of his beer.

Dean waited, anticipating some kind of snarky, and probably rational, response, but it never came. He expected Sam to straighten up and broaden his shoulders, to stand tall over Dean and tell him plainly what was what and to end the discussion as he so saw fit. After all, Sam had taken the reins since that dreadful day—he had to. Dean wasn’t in the right mind to take charge, and they both knew it, though Dean stubbornly pretended otherwise whenever he was feeling particularly enraged or beat down. His younger brother had taken all the same steps forward that Dean had taken backward.

But Sam didn’t do as he thought. Instead he withdrew and disappeared quietly down the hall without a word; not even something ill-mannered under his breath. Dean stood stark still, the beer in his hand momentarily forgotten as he stared dumbstruck at the place Sam used to be. He wasn’t sure whether this meant he had won the fight—if winning or losing was even in the cards to begin with—or if their disagreement was just on pause.

Before he could make sense of it, Sam returned with an angel blade grasped in his hand. He stepped forward without hesitation and offered the blade to Dean, his hand outright and steady without so much as a tremor in his resolve. Dean blinked in surprise.

“You wanna kill him? Go ahead. But, Dean? ... I’m not playing any part in it,” Sam ground out. He spat Dean’s own words right back at him, and it whipped the air right from Dean’s lungs.

His skin was quickly swept with heat and it travelled into his face, reddening his skin; with rage, but also shame too. Shame because he got to feel the same way Sam had when days earlier he had used the very same words: Abandoned. Left to carry a heavy burden upon his own weak shoulders, with the weight of every decision buckling his knees. Like he were walking on thin ice, with one wrong step bound to send him into the pit of freezing cold to drown.

That’s exactly what he had done to Sam, and now it was his turn to suffer.

Dean swallowed hard and hesitantly took the blade from Sam’s hand. The cold metal burnt his skin, and his every instinct told him to drop it—that it hurt and he had to let it go. Sam’s hand dropped like a dead weight to his side and he watched Dean, his expression blank. It was impossible to tell whether he meant it—maybe even he didn’t know for sure. It was Dean’s choice. He could be done with the whole thing; could rectify his mistake with one quick motion. Dean could stab Castiel and take away the torment of his best friend being someone he no longer knew. And he wouldn’t even need to watch, though he had little doubt that he’d see the bright flash of dying grace even with his eyes closed. It couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be without grief. It wouldn’t be easy.

Dean would never be granted peace after that.

He was suddenly struck by a memory. An awful memory he had tried so hard to repress.

Dean’s clothes had been splattered with the blood of the Stynes; coated in the red of murder. Warranted murder, sure… but not without a cost so dear. Not without unnecessary force and bloodshed that went beyond lethal wounds. The mark was cutting deeper and deeper into him, and blurring the edges between good and evil to the point where he couldn’t distinguish between the two anymore. That line had become so much easier to cross, because he couldn’t really see it anymore. Dean believed all ends justified the means, and the mark fed off this untethered rage and intensified bloodlust. It felt sated by the kills he had committed with a deliberate hand. But having given into it, even just this once, meant he’d be endlessly seeking more. Needing more. Wanting more. More. More. More.  

More to the point where it mattered not whose life he must take. More until that desperate plea for mercy no longer landed on deaf ears, instead fuelling his desire to kill. Until he wanted to hear the cries because they made him feel more alive. Dean had already begun to slip into this irreversible void from which he may never have returned. But that hadn’t stopped Cas from trying to bring him back from that edge.

And Dean had nearly killed him. Had beaten him until his vessel had been nothing more than a broken shell with the angel shattered inside. Had left him lying bloody and vulnerable on that floor, with the imprints of his fists dark against his skin. With that blade pierced deep in the book by Cas’ head, the cover acting as the substitute for his skull. Cas had stared up at him, his eyes a deep and burdened blue, saying everything for which there were no words. Cas, broken and defeated, looked at him not with the wrath Dean deserved, but instead with fear that Dean wasn’t okay. With the deepest and most pure grief for his friend who was losing a battle he had never wished to fight.

When Dean had beaten him—his hits landing hard and fast and murderous—Cas hadn’t fought back. He hadn’t thrown a single punch himself, instead putting his up his arms in a futile attempt to defend himself and to protect him from lethal harm. Cas had put his arms around Dean to try and stop him, not to crush him the way he probably should have.

Cas was never going to hurt Dean. No matter if it cost him his life.

Dean, had he looked at himself in a mirror, wouldn’t have seen his reflection looking back at him. But Cas still saw him, deep within. Cas had vowed to never leave him, no matter where the mark took him or what atrocities he committed, no matter who he hurt or killed or even what pain he would inflict on Cas. Dean had been rapidly turning into a monster, but Cas had refused—perhaps stubbornly and stupidly—to turn away. To try and kill him when there was still time.

Dean had been cold, and ravaged by grief and pain and loss… much the same as Castiel.

Cas had been there when Dean needed him, so how could Dean justify not being there for Castiel?

He couldn’t.

Dean couldn’t bear to be that person again; someone able to look into the eyes of someone he loved—even if they weren’t who they used to be—and to kill them.

He let his head dip forward and cast his eyes to the floor, his hand unsteadily reaching out to offer the blade back to Sam. His brother took it without pause and set it down on the counter. Dean shook his head hopelessly and blinked back tormented tears as he tossed his unfinished beer into the trash and finally met Sam’s distraught gaze.

“I can’t do it, Sammy,” Dean admitted in a whisper.

“I know… I just needed you to know that too,” Sam said.

Dean looked out into the doorway, anticipating what would be waiting for him were he to step through it and down the hall to the basement. His dread intensified, leaving him hollow and unwilling to face his demons… or rather, his angel. But he couldn’t keep going this way, drinking himself into a stupor, forcing Castiel’s existence from his mind.

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean said finally, his entire being still wanting to stay where he was. But for once he decided to ignore his instincts, and told himself to save Castiel, when his Cas had always saved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter... and this slow build up to, let's be honest, even I don't know what haha :P Stay tuned for chapter 4.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean faces Castiel once again.

Castiel appeared to be sleeping when Dean pushed the door slightly ajar and peered inside. His head was dipped forward, his torso straining against the chains as his body weight was applied to them. As Dean cautiously stepped through the door, he recognised the shallow rise and fall of Castiel’s back as he breathed. But Castiel couldn’t be asleep. Angels didn’t sleep. That was unless they had been massively weakened; their grace stripped near bare to the bones, leaving them a mere shrivelled entity inside a vulnerable human body. It wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t exactly common either, and Castiel had done nothing strenuous to strip himself of power.

Dean decided he wasn’t to be trusted and knew to keep his distance. Instinctively, he felt for the lighter in his pocket and peered at the ring of holy oil on the floor, ensuring it was still wet.  

“Castiel,” Dean cleared his throat and stood behind the empty chair directly across from the angel. His hands grasped the back of it, helping to steady himself as he stared hopelessly at Castiel.

Castiel’s eyes slowly drifted up to Dean, peering at him through his lashes with what was either curiosity or contempt—it was difficult to tell which.

“What were you doing?” Dean asked tensely.

Castiel quirked his head to the side. “Have you never prayed before?” He wondered, his tone dripping with condescension.

“I’m not really the praying type,” Dean laughed hollowly, “doesn’t mean I haven’t done it before…”

Castiel blinked purposely. “You used to pray to Cas.”

Somehow, he just knew.

Dean nodded briefly and sat down, casting his eyes momentarily away to regather his thoughts. He saw no reason to lie. What use would it be to withhold the truth from him? To shake his head and pretend that the past was the thing of a horrific nightmare? That it was impermanent and rewritable, and that all those desperate prayers had never passed his lips?

“You were praying to God?” Dean wondered and finally allowed himself to look at Castiel once more.

“Why? What good is it to pray to someone who doesn’t wish to listen?” Castiel asked spitefully.

“Then who?”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably and his eyes flickered upward to the cavernous ceiling. “The angels… but…”

“They don’t have their ears on either,” Dean finished for him.

“Of course they do. If they’re possessing vessels, they anatomically will—”

“Not what I meant,” Dean interrupted, “I meant they aren’t listening. Which doesn’t surprise me.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because they’re dicks,” Dean said simply.

“Again, anatomically, some may have male genitals but no human vessel is just one big—” Castiel started seriously.

“Woah, woah, woah… let’s not go there,” Dean interjected quickly, laughing quietly despite himself. “I keep forgetting it’s back to square one with you.”

Castiel slumped further down in his seat, his expression perturbed and his demeanour exhausted as he tried and failed to understand Dean. They were perceptively from two very different worlds that were never intended to collide.

“How bout we take this slow, okay? I don’t want to confuse you,” Dean offered.

Castiel nodded weakly. “That would be… appreciated. Sam is far more legible than you. I was under the assumption you were all the same in that regard, but apparently, I was wrong.”

“He told me you haven’t exactly been Chatty Cathy with him,” Dean said, and then corrected himself when Castiel looked puzzled, “I mean, you haven’t been talking to him.”

Castiel shrugged meekly and scuffed the floor ever so slightly with his foot.

“Why? Why will you talk to me but not him?” Dean wondered.

 “I talk when the idea suits me,” Castiel dismissed him.

“I think there’s something more to it,” Dean pressed. There was a long, heavy silence. Dean waited, rather impatiently, before he finally pushed for an answer. “Why won’t you talk to Sam?”

Castiel sighed and tried to stretch, but the restraints kept him securely in place. Dean made no move to assist him. “Sam tries too hard to appeal to my better nature. He insists we’re friends—” The angel wrinkled his nose and his lip curled.

“Well, I’m not here to play into any ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine,” Dean interjected. He was there for the sake of Sam and Cas, and out of basic human decency. He had no intention of befriending Castiel. He honestly didn’t believe friendship was an option, even if he desired it.

“I don’t understand that reference,” Castiel mused and tilted his head to the side, baffled.

There came a sudden and painful tightness in Dean’s chest, and he had to swallow hard to clear the lump from his throat. He had to divert his gaze once more to distinguish the difference between Castiel and Cas—to remind himself that this _wasn’t_ some miracle. This _was_ some mistake. One that he planned to rectify; he was going to get Castiel home to where he belonged.

“You’re honest. I can see Sam is mistrusting of me. That he’s afraid. But he tries hard to pretend otherwise. Whereas you don’t trust me and you make that plain. You keep your distance and instinctively touch the lighter in your pocket, always looking to see that I’m still secured in this chair. It’s easier to talk to you because I can trust what you have to say,” Castiel went on to explain when Dean said nothing.

Dean raised an eyebrow and had to force himself to expel the pride he felt at hearing that, like with Cas, he and Castiel shared a more profound bond. He couldn’t help but feel momentarily exhilarated by the thought. But he quickly cast it from his mind and banished it from ever returning.

“That’s funny. Normally Sam’s the one more inclined to telling the truth,” Dean said.

“Not to me it seems,” Castiel sniffed, “but don’t confuse my dislike for Sam as fondness for you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean said as he dreamed of it. This, too, he quickly banished.   

“So why won’t the angels communicate with me?” Castiel asked.

Dean shifted in his chair. “The angels weren’t exactly on the greatest of terms with Cas,” he explained gently, “I mean… they allowed him back into heaven when they were searching for the Nephilim, but I dunno if they were grudging about it. And in the end, he ensured it was born and promised to protect it, so I guess they wouldn’t be thrilled about that either.”

“He betrayed his own kind and allowed that abomination to exist?” Castiel hissed, disgusted.

Dean winced, “it isn’t your place to say—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Castiel glared at him, “what Cas did was unforgivable. He doomed us all. You and the rest of humankind as well. Nephilim are to be destroyed before they’re born, and the angel responsible for its conception along with it. And anyone or anything that stands in the way. Cas should have been slaughtered for his betrayal—”

Dean stood up swiftly, causing his chair to fall over with a loud crash that silenced Castiel. His chest heaved with a sudden and intense onset of rage, and his skin became flushed; his face reddening. Dean leaned down, his hands clamped firmly on the armrests of Castiel’s chair. He stopped with his face just a mere few inches away from the angel’s. His jaw tensed and he ground his teeth. He could feel his pulse in his arms and neck, and the rapid hammering of his heart inside his chest.

“You take that back,” Dean spat, incensed.

Castiel stared into his eyes, sitting still and composed, his resolve unbroken by Dean’s abrupt reaction. And he still didn’t react when Dean grabbed his restrained arms and squeezed tightly.

“Take it back!” Dean barked.

“Why should I?” Castiel asked smoothly. Innocently. Naively.

Dean tightened his grip on Castiel’s arms and stayed there, his entire body shaking with furious, adrenaline-fuelled tremors. But then, finally, he softened, and he withdrew slightly without letting go.

“Cas made a lot of mistakes. A lot of bad choices. And he hurt a lot of people, including his own kind…” Dean took in a shaky breath and looked to the floor, “Including me. But it was never without reason. Cas always had too much heart. He was a good man… Better than what I deserved.”

Castiel was silent. Unmoving. And finally, Dean withdrew completely, and, feeling lost, picked up his overturned chair and sunk back down into it.

There they sat like that for hours: Castiel watching him, his eyes bright with intrigue and untethered curiosity, and Dean hunched in the chair opposite, his hands open in his lap and his eyes downcast and empty—a mournful man. Nothing moved. It remained dead silent, neither of them finding any words to say. Dean didn’t want to talk anymore. Because it was Cas and not Castiel he wished to talk to. He found himself unable to stand; the strength simply wasn’t in him.

So Dean stayed there under Castiel’s ever attentive scrutiny until the angel finally spoke up. “You are a very peculiar thing…”

Dean cleared his throat and finally stood. There was an imperceptible tremor in his left knee as he made way for the door and he could barely feel any sensation in his hand as he reached for the handle.

“No. I’m really very ordinary,” he mumbled and closed the door behind him with a quiet and peaceful click.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t understand,” Sam announced aloud to himself, throwing up his hands lividly before outright pushing the book in front of him as far away as the table would allow. Loose papers scattered and fluttered to the floor. Wordlessly, Dean stooped down to pick them up and he placed them back on the table in a haphazard pile. He didn’t think there was much more he could do to help. After all, he couldn’t have slept more than four hours over the past three days, and slowly but surely he was beginning to crash. Though, Dean thought that perhaps Sam had slept even less—he couldn’t be sure as Sam still disappeared for hours at a time, most likely withdrawing to the archives and researching there.

“Maybe you should give it a rest,” Dean suggested timidly and prodded uselessly at the pile of papers, trying to neaten them without much success. He glanced at the top page and all the words blurred into one another. How Sam still managed to read anything was beyond him.

“Right, because time is really on our side right now,” Sam scoffed, “stopping to rest is just—”

“Necessary?” Dean offered and cast him a knowing look. “Look, just sleep. Even just for an hour or two. I’ll take over here.” He lied. There was no chance of him doing anything productive with his whole tired body feeling like a hollow shell.

Sam considered it and gestured to the cluttered table of open books and papers, “This is too important… we’ve got to find mum. We’ve got to take Castiel back—”

“Without letting the Devil out, I know. And we’ve got to somehow track down Jack and keep an eye out for open portals. Sam, we’ve been over this. Too many times, in fact.”

Sam nodded his head dismissively and shut his eyes. Within seconds his head drooped and he near slipped from his chair before waking again with an abrupt jump. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Uh, yeah? Okay?” Dean frowned.

“To do this,” Sam clarified, gesturing again to the table.

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s just reading, Sam. I think I can handle it.”

Sam silently stood and slowly disappeared down the hall without argument, having seemingly forgotten their conversation as it was happening. Dean watched him go before taking Sam’s vacated chair and he stared pointlessly at the wall opposite. He had no intention to research what was outside of his understanding, but he couldn’t find it in himself to sleep either. Without yet deciding why, or pausing to consider the stupidity of his decision, he stood up and walked to the dungeon.

Dean had spent an hour each day there, having distanced his chair from Castiel’s so he could watch him from afar and feel less inclined to speak. Not that Castiel took issue with that—never arguing for or against Dean’s abject silence. Instead, he sat as still as ever under that singular burning light, looking pointedly at nothing as the time passed. Patience seemingly came easy for a creature of millennia. For Dean, however, patience was limited. He’d decided to mimic interrogations for Sam’s sake, making a point of going to see Castiel and returning again, apparently frustrated at the angel’s refusal to cooperate. Still, he hadn’t admitted the truth—that Castiel may very well answer him if only he would ask. Despite having advised Sam to approach Castiel with honesty, little had changed. The hunter’s words went unrecognised by the angel, with his silences heavy with purpose. Why Castiel still ignored Sam, even after all this time, escaped Dean, and he’d finally had enough.

Finally, Dean thought, perhaps his patience had reached its end.

He stepped inside and left the door ajar, the light of the hallway spilling into the room. Castiel looked at him curiously, aware that this visit didn’t fit the pattern he had apparently grown used to. Dean nodded in acknowledgment and pulled his chair in closer before sitting down. He crossed his arms and cleared his throat.

“So, Sam still playing too nice for you?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?” Castiel said, his brow furrowed.

“Because you still won’t talk to him. I told him to be honest. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Dean, tell me, does honesty feel real to you when it’s forced?” Castiel asked.

He had a point, but Dean just shrugged nonetheless, “Real enough. But hey, eventually this will have to be kicked up a notch. It’ll have to get violent. And I don’t want that… do you?”

“Don’t you, Dean? You sound quite eager,” Castiel challenged him.

“If I did, I’d say so,” Dean retorted, “but I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

“Is that so?”

Dean stood again and took to pacing slowly, his arms still crossed. “We’re trying to get you home. And we want to save our mother—”

“So Sam told me,” Castiel interjected, “but I can’t help you. And you can’t help me. So you see… we’ve reached an impasse.”

“Who says we can’t help each other?” Dean asked, pausing briefly.

“These shackles. It’s in the way you stand above me. It’s in your threats. It’s in the silences and the hate in your stare. Because I’m not who you want me to be,” Castiel explained, “You want me to believe we can help one another? When we both know that I’ll be giving and you taking.”

Dean forced a laugh and he gestured to the steadily fading bruising across his nose, “Those shackles say you’re stronger than me. They’re there to even the playing field. So far you’ve given me nothing but pain, so what exactly do you think you deserve in return?”

“You do recall pulling me into another dimension? Taking me away from my people? A hit to the nose hardly seems enough,” Castiel glared, “so you tell me… what _do_ I deserve?”

Dean paused. “What do you want?”

“Answers.”

“Answers?”

“Yes. Answers. Tell me, what was Lucifer’s interest in my world? Seeing as the Nephilim created the tear in time and space, it seems its power exceeds its fathers, so why would they come for us?”

Dean hesitated, but then decided there wasn’t any harm in giving Castiel what he wanted. There was only so much the angel could do with these answers, considering he was still bound to his chair with no conceivable way to escape the bunker, let alone this universe. Dean sank back down into his chair and rubbed idly at his chin, contemplating where to begin and how best to phrase it. It seemed an impossible notion to put the events of that night—and all those horrible weeks since—into words. But he had to try.

“They didn’t, exactly,” Dean started, “as far as we know, Jack—the Nephilim—wasn’t aware of the portal at first. We aren’t even sure if he’s purposely creating them now. And Lucifer… well, he ambushed us that night, looking for his son, and we trapped him in the alternate world. But, as Sam said, he dragged our mother in with him.”

“So, you’re the ones that burdened us with Lucifer? Traversing into our world wasn’t his doing?” Cas asked, his anger suddenly flaring.

Dean tensed. “Burdened? I know Lucifer isn’t exactly peachy company but—”

“But he’s an extremely powerful and malevolent force, now with an entire hoard of demons and monstrous creatures at his beck and call,” Cas interrupted, seething. “After Michael defeated Lucifer, the world fell into chaos, with his creation fighting in his name. This battle has been raging ever since… but we _were_ winning. Many of our soldiers have fallen, and we are running low on viable vessels, but we were surely defeating them. Until Lucifer reappeared.”

“Was Mary with him?” Dean asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Our mother. Did Lucifer have her?”

“You’re missing the point!” Castiel barked.

“You wanted answers, I’m giving you answers. It’s about time you give me some too,” Dean glared.

“I’m telling you that I’ve lost hundreds more of my brothers and sisters since you trapped Lucifer in my world. I’m telling you that you’re the reason why we’re starting to lose the war. I’m telling you that what you did has devastated us, and all you care about is your mother.” Castiel fought against his chains, the cuffs cutting into the skin of his vessel but healing just as swiftly as it bled. His eyes were manic, his pupils large and pointed—burning into Dean.

“Was Mary with Lucifer?” Dean asked again.

The chains around Castiel’s middle finally slipped free and he stood, striding forward as far as the chains would allow. He stopped at the ring of holy oil—that Sam and Dean had regularly been redrawing each time it dried—with his toes just barely touching the line. Dean retrieved his lighter and set it aflame, holding it threateningly above the oil. Castiel remained still for a moment, solid like stone, before finally withdrawing a couple steps. He understood what little good it did him to fight back—Dean still had the upper hand.

“I haven’t seen Lucifer with my own eyes,” Castiel muttered finally, “and I haven’t seen your mother.”

Dean closed the lighter and replaced it in his pocket, his hand still hovering there just in case. His heart sunk. For just a moment, it was as if hope was there before him, beckoning him home. And, as per usual, it was ripped from his grasp and extinguished. Inside, he was suddenly cast into darkness.

Dean settled back in his chair, visibly worn, and he ran a tired hand through his hair.

“Dean? Do you understand?” Castiel asked quietly, after a few minutes of silence.

“What?”

“What it is that you’ve done,” Castiel clarified, “to my world? To my kind?”

Dean peered up at him, a little taken aback by the quiet sadness in the angel’s voice. Castiel had expressed rage and resentment and even a sense of agony—but this was different. This was human-like mourning—something that angels weren’t adept at feeling. It wasn’t in their nature to actually grieve their losses; what once was and would never be again. Angels became fallen comrades and nothing more. But, Castiel actually seemed to genuinely care. And Dean suddenly felt a real pang of guilt. It was true that he hadn’t given much thought to what banishing Lucifer to another world would mean for those existing there. Maybe Sam had, considering he had expressed time and time again that he wanted to impact as little as possible in the mission to find Jack and save their mother. Dean had obviously agreed, thinking how he didn’t want those worlds—and their own particular breeds of horror—to creep back into his life.

But he hadn’t truly considered what would happen if his life crept into those worlds. Dean hadn’t cared. He had lost Mary, and he had lost Cas, and that was all that mattered.

Now he realised how selfish he had been—and honestly continued to be, because he _still_ couldn’t care as much as he should.

“We didn’t feel as if we had another choice,” Dean said meekly, looking away ashamedly.

“There’s always another choice,” Castiel argued.

“Lucifer had taken so much from us already. More than we had ever been prepared to lose. And if he got his hands on the Nephilim we would have lost _everything_.”

“But what about everything _we_ had to lose?” Castiel asked weakly.

Dean looked up at him, trying hard to hold his edge. “What else was there to lose? What you did to Earth… to humanity… You know, Cas fell to save us. He was cast from Heaven for choosing humankind over the angels. What did _you_ do?”

Dean stood again and walked forward with a newfound strength. He stepped right over the ring of holy oil, his demeanour firm in its resolve, and Castiel actually retreated. The angel stepped backward, near stumbling over his own feet, and Dean towered over him—standing straighter with his broad shoulders pushed back, whilst Castiel shrunk in on himself with his shoulders slumping forward.

“You feel like you can guilt me for ‘burdening’ you with Lucifer, but you fail to feel guilt for what you and your ‘brothers and sisters’ burdened us with. With you. With angels and demons using our world as a battleground. For slaughtering what God commanded you to protect. For—”

Castiel sat in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows digging into his thighs, his head held in his hands. The cuffs slid slightly down his wrists. “You’re right,” he whispered.

Dean startled. “Wh…what?”

“You’re right,” Castiel repeated, louder this time. “We were ordered to protect humanity—God’s greatest creation. So many angels just… they lost sight of that. They didn’t care. Maybe…” Castiel’s voice trailed off and he shifted in place, looking more and more forlorn as he considered it. “Maybe they, like Lucifer, resented humankind. Detested them. Maybe they… maybe they _wanted_ to destroy them. When God abandoned us, they had no word to go off of aside from Michael’s—”

“And he and Lucifer are two sides of the same coin,” Dean finished for him.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel murmured hopelessly. He blinked up at Dean, more desperate than ever to understand. And not just the phrase. He wanted to understand why the angels were who they were and why they did what they did. He wanted to know when it had all gone wrong and what could have been done to prevent it—if anything at all.

Castiel wanted to know how he had become a pawn in this game of destruction and endless battle.

 And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to know how to be free from it.

Dean could only hope.

Castiel waited for Dean to answer him—to explain all that couldn’t be explained. He either didn’t know that Dean was the wrong person to ask, or he had become so desperate that he would accept answers from whoever was willing to give them—no matter if they were right or wrong.

“I don’t understand either, Cas—tiel,” Dean sighed, apologetic. He wished he had more to offer.

But then again, Dean wished for a lot of things.

He wished he and Sam had been granted normal lives; he wished they had never been witness to all the awful terrors that now haunted his sleep; he wished his mother and father were alive and with them, and he wished for his Cas to be here in place of Castiel.

Dean had become wise to the reality of their lives—they never got what they wished for. When good things came to them, they were just as quickly taken away. Any peace he felt never stayed for long. Sometimes it seemed as if there was no longer any point in trying.

But he tried anyway.

“I think you’re wrong, Castiel,” Dean said, “I think we _can_ help each other. I think we owe it to one another to try.”

Castiel nodded slightly, each and every one of his movements tainted with heartache—his mind obviously torn between what he should do and what felt right. Dean recognised that look. He had seen it in Cas all those years ago, and he had chosen to do the right thing.

 And it had gotten him killed.

 Dean averted his gaze, afraid of giving away the truth through his eyes—unwilling to admit it to himself that he was the real reason Cas was dead. There was only so long he could blame Lucifer before the truth would catch up with him.

“We can try,” Castiel agreed.

Dean nodded and moved for the door. “We’ll try,” he said, almost like a promise.

And as he shut the door behind him, his hand lingering on the cold handle, he thought how Castiel may very well have followed in Cas’ footsteps—destining himself for death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Sorry it took so long to update! I honestly got in a writer's block on this one, but I do intend to keep going (though I can't promise that I'll upload on a regular basis) Also, as I started writing this before Season 13 started, I intend to stick with something akin to my original plan, so very little will actually be influenced by the new episodes. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and let me know what you thought in the comments! :)


	5. Chapter 5

 

“I don’t know what you said to him, Dean, but Castiel is talking. I can barely get a word in edgewise,” Sam said, pouring a cup of coffee for the two of them. Dean looked up from his computer and watched as Sam hovered with the pot of coffee still clasped in hand. He hesitated a moment before retrieving a third mug from the cupboard and filling it. “He might want coffee,” Sam mused aloud.

Dean looked back to his screen and took another bite of his toast. “Doubt it. It’ll taste like molecules,” he said as he chewed.

“I’ll still offer him a cup,” Sam said, like the fact of the matter didn’t apply.

Like he was thinking of Castiel and Cas as one and the same.

Dean couldn’t focus on reading articles anymore. He had been depending on Sam to draw the line between the two angels—the living and the dead—to keep the clarity between the two. Dean felt that his own perception was clouded by longing and by the void left by Cas’ sudden absence. Sometimes he would look at Castiel and couldn’t avoid seeing Cas instead. It seemed impossible not to. He had unconsciously barricaded himself behind Sam, trying to look through his eyes, but it seemed that Sam’s gaze was clouded too—his kinship with Cas seeping into his acquaintanceship with Castiel.

“He won’t drink it,” Dean told him sternly.

“He might,” Sam easily dismissed him.

“Well, he won’t like it,” Dean sniffed stubbornly. He glared at his laptop, urging the words to come back into focus, but it was no use.

“For the past two days, he’s completely opened up about his world. The estimated ratio of angels to demons, what threats there are, how everything devolved into chaos in the first place,” Sam said. He had noticeably perked up, the anxiety in his voice wavering.

He almost sounded hopeful.

Dean envied his optimism.

“Maybe you shouldn’t get used to it,” Dean suggested timidly, “I hit a weak point and he’s talking out of guilt. It doesn’t mean it’ll last.”

“He feels guilty?” Sam asked, stunned.

“I think so,” Dean shrugged.

“That’s good! Isn’t it?” Sam sat down across from him with his mug clasped in his hands—he had left Dean’s on the kitchen counter, forgetting it amidst his distracted thoughts.

Dean sighed and got up to retrieve it though he wasn’t all that interested in drinking it. Sam didn’t seem to notice that he had moved at all as he sat contemplating.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean muttered dismissively, “maybe he feels guilty now, but he could be pissed at us again by tomorrow.”

“But he _feels_ guilty, Dean! We can work with that.”

“And _you_ won’t feel guilty for using him?” Dean asked.

He knew his brother so well—maybe even too well. Sam had a greater capacity for empathy. He was the more compassionate of the two. Dean felt there was a time and a place for such things and usually tried to be selective when it came to granting kindness in questionable circumstances. He wasn’t the kind to give the benefit of the doubt, but Sam often was.

And Dean was less apprehensive about using people to get what he needed.

But this was different.

He had already played with Castiel’s guilt and convinced him to cooperate—knowing it could very well be the death of him. And Dean already felt awful for it. He had spent the night tossing and turning, fretting over what he had done and what more harm he would do. Sleep had eluded him until the early hours of the morning and then he had woken only a mere hour or so later.

“I’m not using him,” Sam insisted, though he sounded doubtful. “We’re helping to get him home and he’s helping us save Mum. It’s a win-win situation.”

“Cause it’s such a good home to go back to,” Dean scoffed. He closed his laptop with a little more force than he had intended and pushed it aside. He shook his head in frustration. The more he thought about it, the more he hated the idea of sending Castiel back to that shithole of a world. 

“Then what do you think we should do?” Sam asked and crossed his arms. “Do you think we should do nothing? Keep him chained up in the dungeon forever? Let Mum die in the apocalypse?”

“Of course not!” Dean snapped.

“Then what?!” Sam’s nostrils flared. “Because if you have a better idea, then I am all ears.”

Dean glared at him across the table and clutched at his cup of coffee, his grip tightening on the handle. He hated how Sam was always right. He hated Sam’s practicality; how he always seemed to perfectly walk that line between optimism and realism. Somehow Dean always felt suffocated by pessimism, and sometimes Sam even told him as much: _“Would it kill you to be optimistic about this?” “You don’t have to think of the glass as being half empty all the time, Dean.” “We can fix this. You just have to believe it, Dean.” “Try to look on the bright side.”_

It always seemed to be Sam reminding him that there was still hope. It was always Sam trying to guide him back to his feet each and every time he fell. For Dean, he more often than not believed in the worst possible outcome. He was entirely convinced that he would always do wrong and bring harm and death to those that loved him. But he kept it all inside. He hid it beneath layers of liquor and hunting and long drives to nowhere. And he stoically told Sam to pull himself up by the bootstraps, and to power through the way they always did—to fight and keep the monsters from defeating them.

But he realised he sounded more and more like his father each and every day.

Maybe that worked for him. After all, Dean was still up and kicking despite all the odds. But the same could not be said for Sam. Sam needed to believe there was some good still left in this world. And that they were fighting for more than just the sake of it.

Sam needed to be told that the glass was indeed half full.

“Maybe he’ll like the coffee,” Dean muttered finally.

Sam sat back and uncrossed his arms, satisfied. Maybe he was even a little relieved.

“Maybe he will,” Sam agreed and stood up. He picked up the two mugs of coffee and carried them out through the door. His stride was far too confident for Dean’s liking.

Dean knew he likely wouldn’t see Sam again for another hour or so, depending on how talkative Castiel was willing to be that day. He took a large swig of his own lukewarm coffee before tipping the rest down the sink. Dean stared down into it, watching the last ring of coffee draining out from the bottom, and he thought to himself: ‘ _The glass isn’t half empty. It’s bone dry_ ’.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean wasn’t okay with this…not at all. And he made the feeling absolutely clear to Sam without having to say it in words. It was quite possible that Castiel wouldn’t recognise the objection in the tilt of his stance and the tension in his folded arms, but Sam certainly would.

And it seemed like Sam _had_.

Sam shook his head minutely and flashed Dean a warning look, silently ordering him to keep his mouth shut and to keep his numerous complaints to himself until the angel was out of earshot. But with him now upstairs in the residential part of the bunker—a mere few rooms away from Dean’s—perhaps the opportunity would never actually present itself.

Once Sam had suggested freeing Castiel from the dungeon and granting him a room of his own in which to dwell, Dean hadn’t believed it. But once he recognised the sincerity in Sam’s tone, he had instantly rejected the idea. Something about having Castiel in such close proximity—all the time no less—didn’t sit well with him. Maybe it was the thought that he couldn’t mask his fear from the angel forever. That maybe the truth would ultimately get its day and then all hope would be swept away from them forever.

And maybe it was just the prospect of being so close to him. To see him in the halls. To see his profile in Cas’ old doorway and to see the flash of his trench coat whenever he rounded the corner.

To Dean, it would be the same as seeing Cas’ ghost everywhere.

The distinctive line between the two angels would be all the more blurred. And this time, there might not be any returning from that.

Dean watched Castiel as he stood in the middle of Cas’ old—and irregularly used—bedroom. The angel looked so small despite the room being little bigger than a cupboard. He didn’t look as though he belonged. The bed with the mismatching duvet and pillowcases, the empty set of bedside drawers with one broken handle, the armchair with a hole in the armrest, and the small closet holding no more than a slightly bent hanger somehow seemed to fit just right. All those things—with all their noticeable flaws—made sense. They belonged there, each piece perfectly matching the other. Perhaps it had more to do with whom they belonged to.

 Or rather who they _once_ belonged to.

 Cas was unique. He, like the Winchesters themselves, had imperfections. He didn’t quite work the way he should; just like that broken handle and that bent hanger. Yet that was precisely why he fit. Those peculiar flaws were things that made up the man Dean loved. And Dean had never wanted him to change.

 The same way he hadn’t wished to change this room ever since Cas died.

Sam had washed the sheets and remade the bed despite the fact that Castiel had absolutely no use for them. But everything else had remained untouched by time. There wasn’t really anything Cas had ever left behind. After all, he found no reason to take items into his possession and to decorate his living quarters to his particular liking.

But, when coming home immediately after Cas’ death, Dean had waited a few days and avoided the room. He pretended that the door didn’t even exist. Eventually, he ventured inside and had sat down on the edge of Cas’ bed for a minute or two, though it felt more like hours. Then, tentatively, he opened the closet doors to find it entirely bare. He wasn’t sure what exactly he had been hoping to find. Realistically he knew he ought to have expected nothing less. Yet he had still felt a pang of disappointment. There were no secrets that Cas had felt inclined to keep in the safety of the bunker—in their home. Dean had carefully closed the closet doors behind him before looking in the bedside drawers: each one empty aside from a faint collection of dust. Then, in the bottom drawer, he had found a book with a black cover. His heart had skipped a beat. His mouth suddenly felt dry. Dean had sat back down on the bed, the black book clutched in his hands, only to discover it was a Bible. He had traced the embossed silver lettering with one trembling finger, a part of him wishing they would vanish or burn at his touch.

 He had known never to outright ask it of him, but Dean had always wanted Cas to let go of Heaven. To say aloud that he never wished to go back and no longer cared what his fellow angels said or did.

Dean wanted Cas to feel at home there—with him.

And sometimes Dean believed Cas truly did.

Sometimes Cas had stayed at the bunker for weeks at a time, obviously never needing the shelter, but staying for the company. And Dean had always wished that he would never leave. But Cas always inevitably did. And that Bible suggested that maybe he would have one day never come back.

 Dean flipped through the pages of the Bible, desperately hoping to find something scrawled in the margins or some highlighted passages—anything to prove or disprove his theory. But there was nothing. It was just a regular Bible.

Frustrated. Broken. Dean had tossed the book aside and kicked the drawer shut. With the blanket gripped in white-knuckled fists, Dean’s head had dipped forward and his eyes closed. There was nothing there for him. There was nothing left of Cas; nothing he could hold onto. But then he had seen it: the edge of something peeking out of the Bible on the floor. Picking it up and tugging it free from the pages, Dean had discovered a photograph. It was one he couldn’t recall being taken: he and Cas side by side leaning against the Impala, beers in hand. Dean was inclined towards Cas, trying to hear him over some now forgotten sound, and Cas’ lips were at his ear. Their hands were near touching, their palms pressed against the hood of the car. Cas’ coat was caught in the gentle wind, blowing the tan material against Dean’s denim-clad legs. And Dean was smiling. Laughing actually, at whatever it was Cas was whispering to him.

Dean wished he could remember the words.

With tears burning his eyes, Dean had slipped the photo back into the Bible and put it away as he had found it. Though he had revisited it time and time again in the middle of the night whenever he couldn’t sleep. Which was often.

Cas had kept a secret after all… but Dean still didn’t understand what exactly it meant.

Dean kept his eyes warily trained on Castiel, prepared to pounce if the angel dared touch anything. He wasn’t sure where the fierce urge to protect this room came from. He had allowed Sam to do with it whatever he willed, perhaps since he had known his brother would never do anything too drastic to it. But Castiel was different. It was evident that the angel was entirely disinterested in making a home for himself there, his eyes glazing over the furniture with no sign of recognition. He sat awkwardly on the bed with his wrists still in the Enochian cuffs and looked up at Sam and Dean for confirmation that it was the right thing to do.

Sam nodded his head and Dean shook his.

Castiel furrowed his brow and remained motionless at the very edge.

“The TV’s plugged in if you want to use it,” Sam said, gesturing to the television propped up on the dresser in the corner of the room—perhaps the one thing Cas had actually used.

Castiel stared at the TV, his lips slightly puckered. Then he frowned.

Sam noticed the angel’s confusion and cleared his throat. He picked up the remote and turned the TV on. Castiel leaned a little forward, his curious expression caught in the glow of the screen. Sam knelt down beside him and tried explaining the remote to him. Dean’s lip curled a little. This felt too much like nesting for him. A part of him still strongly resisted the notion of sending Castiel back to his own world, but he wasn’t comfortable with housing him here like this either. The dungeon felt safe—Castiel was far enough away that Dean could distance himself whenever he felt he needed to, and it was close enough to appease the concern for his safety.

He had already felt conflicted, but the sensation just exemplified tenfold.

Sam’s phone suddenly rang and he stood upright to answer it. “Hey, Jody,” Sam said, peering at Dean. Sam lowered the phone to his chest to muffle the speaker. “Dean, stay here for a minute, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

Before Dean could argue, Sam resumed his phone call and left the room. Then it was just Dean and Castiel. The angel stared at him and Dean glared back. The ache in his chest that lured him to Castiel intensified. In turn, Dean grew resentful.

“Sam’s trusting you,” Dean grumbled, “you better not fuck it up.”

“You don’t trust me?” Castiel asked timidly.

“Not even a little.”

“I thought you said we were going to help one another,” Castiel pointed out.

Dean hated that sad look on his face. And he hated knowing he didn’t actually mean it. There was no way that he could.

“Yeah, but pampering you wasn’t a part of the deal,” Dean griped.

“What do you suppose I’ll do?” Castiel pointed out, lifting his cuffed wrists to emphasise his imprisonment.

“I dunno. But I’m sure you’ll think of something. All you angels do is cause trouble… and act like dicks.” Dean sunk down into the old armchair and grudgingly conducted his job as the guard. He wanted nothing more than to escape to the privacy of his own room… but even then he would be constantly aware of the angel only a few doors down.

“How does one act like a dick? I still don’t understand.”

“Well, you know what they say… you get used to anything if you’re around it for long enough,” Dean glared intensely at his feet. He knew if he looked up he would see Castiel’s alluring curious expression. Dean couldn’t stand that. Not right now. He didn’t need to miss Cas more than he already did.

There was a long stillness with just the faint sound of the television emanating from the corner. Dean didn’t really listen to it; just allowing the audio to fade into an incoherent drone in the background. In fact, he almost forgot it was turned on at all. He was too focused on Sam’s extended absence, wondering if he had left the two of them alone on purpose. With his cheek rested against his fist, he gazed at the blank wall directly across from him until his eyelids started to droop. The lack of sleep had finally caught up to him and he was far too tired to fret anymore. The chair was comfortable, and the faint scent of leather lulled him to sleep.

The next thing he knew, he woke up to a dark room with nothing but the glow of the television illuminating his surroundings. He could only just make out the contents of Cas’ room, and he realised, still with some confusion, that he had fallen asleep there. It was hard to say how long he had been out for since he couldn’t read the face of his watch in the dark. Sitting up in the chair, he groaned and stretched out his back and stiff neck. Castiel was still sat at the edge of the bed, exactly where he was when Dean fell asleep. Dean knew without question that the angel hadn’t moved at all.

“Dean?” Castiel said gently. As the television lit up more as it went from commercial to show, Dean caught Castiel’s gaze. The light glistened in his eyes. That sad, hopeless look had only deepened over time. And that guilt—if that’s what it really was—still seemed to haunt him.

But was it real? Dean wasn’t sure.

He could never be sure.

“What?” Dean grunted and ran his hands roughly through his hair. He stretched some more.

“What does love feel like?” Castiel asked.

Dean blinked. “What are you on about?”

“These people—,”Castiel gestured to the screen, “they say it a lot. _‘I love you’, ‘Do you love me?’ ‘Can’t you see how much I love you?’ ‘Don’t you know how much I love you? I’d die for you.’_ … They say it like it means something. Something important. Like… more important than anything else. What does it feel like?”

That ache cut deeper into Dean. That void screamed at him. The invisible knife embedded in his chest twisted and burned. Dean knew all too well what love felt like—and not just the familial love he felt for Sam and for Bobby and Charlie (all people whose love for him either got them hurt or killed). Dean had also felt the other kind. The _‘in’_ love kind. And it had gotten him here to this state of indescribable pain. It had given him nothing more than an endless agony.

Dean no longer believed in the beauty of love. It was a rose garden filled with thorns.

“It feels like shit, Castiel,” Dean said. “It’s just pain.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak when the door opened and Sam peered inside. “Everything okay in here?” Sam asked. He was looking solely at Castiel, as if sure that Dean would lie. And maybe he was right.

“Yes. Everything is okay,” Castiel assured him. He never looked away from Dean.

Dean swiftly stood up and clapped Sam hard on the shoulder, purposely hitting harder than was necessary. It was a silent reprimand for leaving him alone with the angel and going out of his way to take time in coming back. Dean didn’t appreciate it. It had accomplished nothing.

“Your turn to babysit, Sammy,” Dean muttered sourly. He forcefully shut the door behind him and fled to his own room.

As he had predicted, even with the privacy of his own familiar four walls, his mind wandered to a few doors down and he thought about Castiel sitting there where Cas used to be. And he hated that perfect mirror image.

In a way, despite knowing the truth, he still felt like he had gotten his angel back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and are looking forward to the next one. I will most certainly be continuing, though, with writing two stories at once, usually 6 days each week spent at work, and with a Supernatural convention coming up soon, I can't say for sure how long it'll take to update. I'm trying for a week or two at most between chapters.   
> Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought! Your feedback really gives me the drive to keep going and it is always greatly appreciated :)


	6. Chapter 6

Two portals had opened over the course of six days. There hadn’t been an opportune time to discuss what to do with Castiel during their absence, so Sam had stayed behind in the bunker the first time. Whilst he drove close to an hour outside of Riverdale, Nebraska, Dean had spent the solitude wishing he was at home. It wasn’t the first time he had journeyed alone without Sam or Cas in the seat beside him, but he still didn’t favour it. Sure, he could play his music as loud as he wanted without complaint, and he could roll the windows all the way down without Sam demanding he roll them back up, lest his hair become irreversibly windswept.

 But Dean missed the company.

 It seemed wrong not to have Sam’s ridiculously long legs taking up far too much of the front seat, with his laptop propped up on his knees, somehow accessing the internet no matter how isolated from the population they became. He missed Sam’s mundane mumblings about the research he had conducted—far too many strenuous spent reading the most insignificant facts that completely enthralled him but bored Dean.

Dean had been repressing the memory of Cas.

He didn’t want to picture him there, fully dressed in his suit, tie, and trench coat despite the summer heat. Dean rejected the thought of Cas’ deep voice asking curious questions and awkwardly repeating Dean’s unrecognised references. Dean didn’t want to think about the image of Cas’ blue eyes peering out the window, his dark hair dishevelled by the breeze, his tie blowing and twisting whenever they hit an open road and the wind roared through the open windows.

Yet Dean couldn’t help but remember.

He recalled the one time he had gotten too tired to drive, his eyes heavy and head drooping, his hands slipping dangerously low on the wheel. He had pulled over to the side of the road for a quick 20 minute rest. Then, with the startling flutter of his wings, Cas had appeared in the passenger seat. Dean had immediately sat upright, his eyes suddenly wide and alert. His racing heart had only settled once he recognised that there was no danger.

If anything, he was safer with Cas there.

 

**“What are you doing here?” Dean grumbled sleepily.**

**“Didn’t you pray for me?” Cas frowned.**

**He was sitting far too close, as he so often did despite Dean’s numerous attempts to teach him the importance of personal space. Truthfully, Dean had found less reason to argue it by then. In fact, he kind of liked Cas’ close proximity. Not that he ever admitted it—instead he just gave up instructing him to take two steps back.**

**“No,” Dean said.**

**But then he thought: _Did I?_**

**It wouldn’t be the first time Cas had appeared without intentionally being called. Sometimes Dean did it by accident. It was hard not to, especially since he had no idea at what point his casual thoughts of the angel became strong enough and persistent enough for him to hear. Dean had never asked. He was embarrassed by the question. Especially since Sam didn’t seem to have the same problem—that he had ever told Dean about at least. But Dean suspected that his brother simply never had unexpected visits from the trench-coated angel.**

**Only he did.**

**This had been happening more and more often, much to Cas’ confusion. Perhaps it would have been wiser for Dean to admit that while he _hadn’t_ prayed for him, he _had_ longed for him. In the clutches of exhaustion, Dean often failed to contain his thoughts. He wasn’t in the right mind to dismiss thoughts he knew he ought not to be having, or to banish daydreams or—admittedly—curiously erotic fantasies. They happened on their own accord, and then, just like that, the angel came with a quick flutter of wings.**

**“I might have been dreaming,” Dean admitted finally when Cas didn’t immediately leave.**

**How could he deny that lost look on Cas’ face? Those innocent blue eyes and the alluring pucker to his lips and the sharpness to his already cutting jaw?**

**“Do you need me, Dean?” Cas asked, clearly willing to give him whatever he asked.**

**“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean shook his head.**

**There were plenty of ways in which he _wanted_ Cas, but he couldn’t justly say that he needed him. Cas probably had somewhere better to be and something more important to do. Not that he asked. He hated to think that there would come a time that he truly called for Cas only for him to never show.  **

**Cas stared at him for a moment, his brow furrowed. Dean shifted awkwardly. Cas had such a piercing gaze. It was like an intensity Dean had never actually encountered before. And it actually made him nervous—as if he had never been looked at by anyone else before. Like he really was just being truly _seen_ for the first time. It made him edgy in that weak knees and flushed skin type of way. Heart skipping a beat and everything. Though he constantly denied it to himself.**

**“You look tired,” Cas said.**

**“Gee, thanks, Cas,” Dean sighed and slunk down into his seat.**

**He shut his eyes and rested his head back. He figured Cas would leave when he wanted to. He’d feel a sudden breeze, hear the flutter of wings, and then he would open his eyes and Cas would be gone.**

**And then, as he always did after Cas left, Dean would feel lonely.**

**“I could take you to wherever it is you need to go,” Cas offered.**

**Dean’s eyes flew open. He knew what that meant. And, sure enough, Cas’ hand was outstretched with two fingers poised to zap Dean and the car to God knows where. Dean shook his head and held up a hand in warning. He _hated_ teleporting… well, flying, really. It was flying after all, even if it was instantaneous and he saw nothing more than the beginning and the end.**

**Figures he would detest angelic transportation as much as actual planes.**

**“You know how I feel about being zapped around, Cas.”**

**“I do,” Cas conceded. He seemed to consider it for a moment. “I could drive?”**

**“Come again?” Dean blinked.**

**At this stage, he didn’t know Cas even could drive. At least he had never offered to before. Dean suspected Cas hated vehicular transportation just as much as Dean hated flying.**

**Idly, Dean thought how his longing for Cas was doomed. They weren’t right for one another—he knew that. He had told himself time and time again.**

**He should believe it by now.**

**He wanted to believe it.**

**Yet he didn’t.**

**He still longed desperately for Cas.**

**And, sometimes… Cas heard him.**

**“I could drive if you like? While you sleep?” Cas said tentatively.**

**Dean considered it for a moment. He didn’t just let _anyone_ drive the Impala. Aside from Sam and Bobby, nobody else could so much as touch the steering wheel—whether the keys were in the ignition or not. Dean gazed out to the long open road and thought, dreadfully, of how much further he had to go. And he hated driving alone.**

**Finally, he nodded and opened his door.**

**“Okay, Cas,” he agreed, “I’d really like that.”**

**Cas smiled a little. He seemed oddly eager as he disappeared from the passenger seat and then reappeared at Dean’s door, making the hunter jump again. Cas opened the door wider for him and waited as Dean slowly got out, dragging his tired legs. Dean settled himself in the passenger seat beside Cas who was waiting patiently with the engine already running and his hands positioned appropriately on the wheel.**

**Dean didn’t know how or why he was trusting Cas with his car… but it seemed safe somehow in the angel’s hands. A little startled by the absence of concern, Dean hadn’t fallen asleep straight away. Instead, he watched as Cas drove, the look of contentment on his face. Cas truly seemed at peace there. Happy. Dean smiled and let his tired eyes rest.**

 

Only now, Dean wished he had stayed awake a little bit longer. He wished he had spent more time watching him and really focusing on the details that had since become lost to him. There were holes in his memory that he could never get back.

When Dean reached his destination and found that the portal merely led to yet another dimension he never wished to visit, he leaned against the hood of the Impala and waited for it to close. He and Sam had made a routine of this: sitting and waiting as long as it took for the crack between the two worlds to seal. They had to make sure nothing passed through the tear in time and space. It was the only way they could try and ensure that the two worlds didn’t collide. Of course, they couldn’t truly prepare themselves for whatever could come through, yet Dean’s plan had always remained the same: _Shoot first, ask questions later._

So far he hadn’t let off a single shot. Though he suspected his luck would eventually run out. It always did, after all. Dean leaned his sawed-off shotgun against his leg and dug his phone out of his pocket. Sam hadn’t contacted him, which implied nothing chaotic had happened since he left. Dean started typing, his eyes darting up now and again to check on the slowly closing portal.

 _‘Another waste of time. Should be home in a few hours.’_ He sent first.

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Dean sent another.

_‘How is he?’_

It seemed stupid to ask. How would the imprisoned angel from another dimension be at that moment? Probably no different to how he was when Dean left. But Dean had to know. Since giving in and allowing his mind to wander to Cas, Castiel had inevitably started to invade his thoughts too. And Dean wanted him to be okay.

Dean was still shaken by Castiel’s sudden and unexpected question about love. It had been daunting him ever since. But his answer still hadn’t changed. Love did feel like shit. Love was nothing but pain.

 _‘He’s fine. Asking about you though. He wanted to know whether you made the drive safely,’_ Sam replied.

A weight dropped in Dean’s chest. With trembling fingers, he shoved the phone back into his pocket and picked up his shotgun. He clenched onto it tightly for another few minutes until the portal closed, the burning edges of the rip melding seamlessly back together.

And then, with his eyes avoiding that same empty seat, Dean got back into his car to endure the quiet drive back home.

This time, his longing was so desperate and so loud he knew it could be heard for miles.

But Cas couldn’t hear him. He never came.

 

* * *

 

The second time a portal opened, Sam had volunteered to drive all the way to Hutchinson, Minnesota. Which meant Dean would be the one to stay in the bunker and watch Castiel. A part of him insisted he argue, but the greater part of him couldn’t help but be happy to stay. The harder he tried to deny Castiel, the more impossible it became. He had been right in assuming that Castiel’s presence in the bunker would be like Cas’ ghost. The sight had frightened him more than once.

But, usually, it just hurt him instead.

Each time he saw the tan coat in his peripheral vision, something akin to hope set alight like fire in his chest. There were those few torturous seconds in which he actually thought Cas had come home. He always did. _Had_. But what was burned stayed dead, and his Cas was long gone—nothing more than ash in the wind. The spark of hope was tainted. The hope never paid off, and he was nothing but wounded each and every time. Though no matter what he did, he could never seem to douse that flame entirely. He had tried.

After bidding Sam farewell, Dean went to the kitchen and kept himself distracted and busy cleaning up after their breakfast that morning. He emptied the half-eaten meals into the trash and washed the plates and cutlery carefully in the sink. He took his time, delaying the inevitable. He would have to venture back down that hallway eventually and run the risk of seeing Castiel. And what would he say and do then? He hadn’t decided. It seemed wrong to ignore the angel, but it also seemed equally as perilous to acknowledge his existence.

“Dean?”

Dean dropped the plate he was holding and it shattered on the tiles. He stood frozen in place, his bare feet precariously centred in the scattered pile of shards. He muttered a vulgar word under his breath and cautiously bent down to at least try to gather the larger pieces. Surprisingly, Castiel knelt down and joined him, somehow picking up the small, almost miniscule pieces with ease. The cuffs around his wrist jostled in the awkward silence. They made it difficult for him once his palm became full with tiny shards. For a moment, Dean considered unlocking the cuffs, but then he immediately dismissed the idea. It was stupid and risky, and he would never hear the end of it if Sam ever found out that he had let the very powerful and potentially dangerous angel loose.

“I scared you,” Castiel said. It wasn’t a question.

“I forgot you were here,” Dean lied. He could never forget—though not for lack of trying.

Castiel fell silent, focusing his attention instead on sweeping the last of the broken plate from the floor into his hand. Dean reached forward at the same time to help and their hands touched. It was only brief, their fingers barely grazing each other, but Dean withdrew like he had been burned. He cleared his throat and quickly strode over to the bin to dispose of bits of the plate. He held the lid open as Castiel followed and emptied his hands and brushed the miniscule pieces of ceramic from his skin.

“Sam says the Nephilim opened another portal,” Castiel said.

Dean relaxed some of the tension from his shoulders. He hadn’t noticed his muscles becoming so stiff in the first place. Relieved by the change of subject, he nodded. “Looks like it. It might close before he even gets there, but it’s good to be sure,” Dean said.

“And if it’s my portal?” Castiel asked quietly. He avoided Dean’s gaze.

“Then we’re gonna have to haul ass and hope we make it in time,” Dean resumed cleaning the remainder of the dishes.

Unexpectedly, Castiel picked up a cloth and automatically started drying them, though his expression suggested confusion at the process. It seemed he was merely mirroring whatever he had seen Sam and Dean do, though Dean never realised just how closely the angel was watching. He didn’t think what the angel could have possibly observed from the mundanity of their day to day lives.

“And if we don’t make it in time?”

“Then we wait and try again… what’s with all the questions?” Dean shot him a piercing look, but Cas didn’t see it. He was clearly trying not to.

“I’m just trying to understand your plan, Dean,” Castiel dismissed him.

“I’m sure Sam’s told you before,” Dean murmured pointedly. In fact, he knew for certain, because Sam had repeatedly told him the same plan as well. Sam was unwilling to risk a mistake of any kind, especially after Dean had gone and pulled Castiel back into their dimension with them.

“He has,” Castiel confirmed.

“So? The questions?”

Castiel sighed and set down another dry plate. “It’s good to be sure,” he said, feeding Dean’s own words back to him.

Dean blinked. Something felt passive aggressive about it. But Dean couldn’t for the life of him detect what it was exactly or why. As far as he knew, Castiel had always been on board to return to his own world, to resume the war the angels had been waging for however many years. He had seemed insistent on saving as many of God Squad as possible—a soldier never abandoning his troops.

Yet now Castiel sounded burdened by the notion.

“We’ll put you back in and pull our mum back out,” Dean said sternly, recalling Sam’s plan.

“Of course,” Castiel nodded. He carefully folded the cloth once the dishes were done and he set it down on the counter neatly. “Until then?”

“Until then? More of the same,” Dean gathered the dishes and set about putting them away in their rightful place. When he couldn’t recall the correct drawer for a kitchen utensil, Castiel wordlessly opened it for him.

Dean’s brow furrowed. Castiel had been looking _very_ closely. Perhaps he had even been perusing the bunker at night whilst Sam and Dean slept. Though of course there was no physical evidence to suggest such a thing. Dean wasn’t in any position to accuse him. They hadn’t exactly given him verbal instruction as to where he could or could not go, aside from the obvious: _“We’ve warded you inside the bunker. Don’t bother trying to leave.”_

Dean shook his head slightly, mostly to himself, and he left the kitchen. He couldn’t hear Castiel behind him, but he could sense him. Dean knew he was being followed. He fought the urge both to snarl at him to leave, but also pleading with him to stay. It was that same confliction that had been troubling him for days. And he was still no closer to a resolution.

Dean simply felt everything all at once.

He could no longer discern which emotion corresponded with which thought, and there seemed to be no singular emotion that stood out from the rest. It was no wonder why he couldn’t sleep. And that he often found himself sneaking to the fridge in the late hours of the night to recover a beer or two, sometimes even a stronger liquor to try and lull himself into a false sense of ease.

Nothing made sense anymore.

He allowed Castiel to keep trailing behind him as he went into the library and sat down in front of one of the books Sam had left open on the table. He flipped it back to the first page and started idly reading it, though not really caring about the contents. He was sure it was yet another boring, convoluted volume from an extensive series of other boring and convoluted books. As was most of what Sam spent his free time reading.

Castiel wandered around the room, his attention drawn to the numerous books on the shelves and the various historic artefacts and weapons the Men of Letters had hoarded over the years. Dean quickly grew fed up with reading and peered up from the page to watch the angel instead. Castiel had to reach up with both arms just to trace the spines of some books with his finger, the cuffs pulling whenever he had to reach too high. But at least he seemed genuinely interested, even if he didn’t pull any particular book out to actually read just yet. He probably wrongly believed he wasn’t allowed. But giving verbal permission would divulge that Dean was watching him, and he wasn’t willing to admit to that.

Then Castiel stopped at the one thing in the room that didn’t belong. Even though it was outdated when considering that everything now was contained in portable devices and Bluetooth speakers, the stereo was new enough to stand out from all the other contraptions littered around the room. Castiel peered at it curiously and tentatively touched one of the buttons, causing the cassette slot to open. He closed it and then opened it again, trying to understand its function.

Dean couldn’t keep his teeth clamped down on his tongue any longer.

“It plays cassettes,” Dean said.

Castiel stood upright and frowned at him, confused. Dean sighed but inwardly smiled. He got up from the table and joined him at the stereo, pulling out his favourite cassette from the stacked pile next to it. Castiel eagerly watched him, immediately fascinated by whatever it was that had actually managed to perk Dean’s interest. Truthfully, Dean had been hesitant to commit to a conversation with him and grunted most of his responses without care. Though of course, he tended to feel guilty for it later on. This was the first time Dean had gone out of his way to speak to him, and most certainly the first time in a long while that he hadn’t done so grudgingly.

Dean pressed play on the tape and grinned to himself when the music filled the dense room. Castiel seemed unsure as to how he ought to respond. It was impossible to tell whether he was enjoying it or not, and he probably didn’t know himself.

“Ever heard music before?” Dean asked curiously.

“Erm, I suppose?” Castiel said doubtfully, “angels once had their own Enochian war chants. I don’t suppose that counts?”

“No, it doesn’t count,” Dean confirmed.

Castiel leaned against the table and lowered his ear closer to the speakers. And then he smiled. It was the slightest upturn at the corners of his lips, but Dean saw it, and his own heart fluttered. Actually, it pounded hard a few times in his chest, and he heard the beat in his ears. He gestured to the other tapes, silently inviting Castiel to look through them as he pleased, though of course, he wouldn’t recognise any of the bands. It didn’t seem to matter as Castiel looked through them anyway, reading the names with interest, even going so far as to set aside some he must be interested in listening to.

Dean’s heart soared. His knees felt weak again.

And he remembered.

 

 **He couldn’t look. He couldn’t stand to gaze down at Cas’ lifeless face. The angel looked at peace** **as if he were sleeping. When Dean had lifted Castiel’s body, his skin was only just beginning to turn cold. There was still warmth lingering in the skin of his cheeks, and a healthy colour to his face. It seemed impossible for Cas to truly be dead. But of course, Dean had seen it happen with his own eyes. He had watched as Lucifer pierced Cas with the angel blade and the blinding white of dying grace burst from his eyes. He had watched, horrified, as Cas fell to the ground, the etch of his broken wings scorched onto the earth.**

**There was no denying what had happened. But every instinct told Dean to try.**

**Jack had disappeared, their mother had been swept away into the alternate dimension with Lucifer, and Castiel laid dead at Dean’s feet. It had all happened so fast, yet Dean had carved the memory of Cas’ death permanently into his mind—and no details had been missed. There was no forgetting what he had seen, and no forgetting the way it sounded when the blade had speared straight through him.**

**There was no forgetting the pure torment Dean felt, unable to stop it or look away.**

**He began to wrap Castiel’s body in the torn fabric from the curtains, starting at his feet. Even with the sheet covering him, Dean could still picture the lifeless form underneath. And it hurt. It ached like the clutches of loss suffocating him from the inside out. A headache raged inside his skull, beating and pounding all over from the back of his head to his temples. Tears had been burning his eyes for what felt like forever, yet they hadn’t yet spilled over.**

**He was still too shocked to cry.**

**Dean tightened the material at Cas’ legs before picking up another strip with trembling hands to tie another knot at Cas’ thighs. His fingers felt swollen and clumsy, the tips numb with the sensation of needle pinpricks making it impossible to tie another knot. It was taking all his strength not to emotionally fall apart, and so instead he started to collapse physically. He kept trying but the material wouldn’t stay taut around Cas and the knot repeatedly slipped undone.**

**Dean wanted to scream. He wanted to curse and pound his fists against the wall. He wanted to disappear. To stop. To not feel anything anymore.**

**To die.**

**But he had no choice but to do this. Cas deserved better than that. Dean struggled to breathe as he finally finished the second knot and then started on the third. It was getting harder with each one. He died a little more every time.**

**As he got the fabric beneath Cas’ back and pulled it to either side, he felt something square and hard in his pocket. Now with no feeling left in his hands, Dean somehow managed to reach into Cas’ pocket, and he retrieved a cassette tape.**

**_‘DeaNs top 13 ZePP TRAXX’_ **

**Cas had kept it in his pocket all this time, maybe even pulling it out on his long drives alone back and forth between the bunker and wherever it was he had to venture to. Dean liked to think that he did. And maybe that it had made the journeys feel less lonely for him. Maybe, when he was far away and on his own, Cas had that one little thing to remind him of home—to remind him of Dean.**

**Dean’s grip tightened on the tape, and he forcefully wiped the few tears that finally fell. He couldn’t cry yet. Cas deserved better than that. He tried to clear the lump from his throat without success and he gently tucked the tape back into Cas’ pocket where he had found it.**

**It was a gift. Cas keeps those.**

 

That tape too burned. Its ashes were swept away by the wind. That gift—the memory of home. The memory of Dean—washed away with Cas that day. And maybe it was with him still. Maybe Cas somehow knew in death that Dean hadn’t forgotten him. And Dean had forgiven him for all the trials and tribulations they endured together; for all the mistakes that were made.

And Dean desperately hoped he was forgiven too.

Maybe Cas somehow knew in death that Dean still loved him and always would.

Castiel gently touched Dean’s hand and immediately withdrew with caution. But Dean said nothing. He hadn’t noticed the tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill, but he felt the first tear as it slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and turned his back to Castiel. Dean didn’t want him to see him like this. It brought down more bricks of the wall he had built between them. And now it was dangerously close to tumbling down altogether.

“Dean?” Castiel whispered.

“It’s nothing, Cas,” Dean said, but his voice caught at the end. He said Cas with a broken quiver.

Castiel did not argue being called Cas, and he didn’t question it. Instead, he rested his hand on Dean’s shoulder. The other hand, trapped in the second cuff, lingered at his back. At first, Dean leaned into his touch. He couldn’t help it. It was Cas’ hands. The touch was so comforting and loving and Dean needed him. Dean needed Cas.

But this _wasn’t_ Cas.

Dean suddenly shrugged Castiel’s hands off him and walked swiftly out of the room and down the hall to his room.

This time, the angel didn’t follow him.

And this time, Dean desperately wanted him to.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, guys! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you thought in the comments. I always love reading your feedback :)   
> It might start taking longer to update now since I'm writing two stories at the same time and working during the day. Also, I'm going away to a Supernatural convention in less than 3 weeks, so some chapters will likely be delayed (but still coming!)


	7. Chapter 7

Sam tossed the keys to the Impala into Dean’s lap. Dean jumped and nearly dropped his cup of coffee—laced with a dash or two of whiskey—on his legs. A little sloshed onto his thigh, burning him through his jeans, and he wiped at the stain with disdain.

“What the hell, Sam?” he cursed. He set his drink aside and stood up, staring down at the dark patch of denim. The keys clattered on the floor.

“Another portal just opened,” Sam explained quickly. His back was to Dean, reloading his gun and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

“So… it’s my turn?” Dean asked uncertainly. Sam was preparing his own weapons but giving Dean the keys to drive. It didn’t add up.

“We’re all going,” Sam corrected him.

“All?” Dean repeated in disbelief, “You don’t mean—” 

“Yes, I mean Castiel too.”

“Sam—,”

“We don’t have time to argue about this, Dean. It’s too risky for one of us to go alone,” Sam said and turned around to gesture to his bruised eye and the healing slashes down his cheek.

His last lonesome venture to a portal had brought him face to face with a far too curious and aggressive werewolf trying to leap between worlds. Of course, Sam had killed the monster, but not before getting a good beating first. Since then, Sam had been insisting they needed to revise their plan, but Dean hadn’t yet given him the time of day.

“So you and I go,” Dean suggested sternly, “Castiel is warded here. He hasn’t gone Shawshank on us so far. I think we can risk an hour or two.”

“No,” Sam said. There was no weakness in his resolve. No room for compromise of any kind.

“You don’t think it’s more of a risk taking him with us? What’s to stop him from turning around and stabbing us in the back and making a run for it?”

“I’m not happy about it either, Dean. But it’s the better of two evils.”

 Sam checked the sharp edge of the demon knife before tucking it into his belt alongside his gun. He looked pointedly at Dean, clearly frustrated that he was still standing there in his wet jeans with the car keys at his feet and a startled expression etched permanently onto his features.

“Go get Castiel,” Sam ordered with a heavy sigh and bent down to retrieve the keys. “Meet me at the car.”

Dean waited until Sam rounded the corner and disappeared down the hall towards the garage before rubbing his temples firmly with dread. He didn’t want to do this. The original plan had been trouble enough: either on the road alone or in the bunker with Castiel—with that ever growing need to be with him the way he never had the chance to with Cas. But this was worse. This was them out on the road together in that confining car, able to see Castiel in the rear-view mirror for as many hours they were driving. There would be no escaping it—him. Dean couldn’t distance himself whenever that line between the two angels—the living and the dead—blurred beyond distinction.

But he clearly had no choice in the matter. And he was wasting time by delaying the inevitable. With a sinking feeling in his gut, Dean tread grudgingly down the hallways to Castiel’s room and knocked twice. He didn’t wait for a response before opening the door and gesturing with his thumb for the angel to follow him. Castiel was sat up in bed atop the blankets, his eyes darting away from the television the moment Dean arrived. Curious, Dean peered at the screen and recognised some cheesy soap opera he admittedly watched on occasion as a guilty pleasure, always changing the channel whenever he heard Sam approaching. His face flushed red as if Castiel somehow knew and he diverted his gaze.

“We’re going,” he said and cleared his throat awkwardly.

It felt weirdly invasive to be showing up at his door like this. It was as if he had caught Castiel in the act of something truly embarrassing, though there was actually nothing odd about watching TV—even if it _was_ oddly human for the angel. But then again, Cas had become fond of trash television too over time. Dean had seen it happen before.

“Where?” Castiel asked and stood up. His tone was laced with trepidation.

Dean glanced up at him and saw distress glistening in his eyes. Again, he suddenly looked like he had shrunk in on himself, the trench coat becoming three sizes too big in the blink of an eye. Castiel took a noticeable step back towards the wall like he didn’t want to leave.

“Another portal opened and Sam thinks its best we all go together this time,” Dean explained.

There was a heavy silence between them. Dean didn’t know what to do. He doubted he could drag the angel with him—not that he was willing to try even if it were possible. But they couldn’t leave Sam waiting either, and there was no telling how long the portal would remain open for.

“Is it…” Castiel’s voice trailed off before he tried again. “Is it my portal?”

Dean blinked. Now, he understood. He realised why Castiel suddenly seemed so apprehensive and frozen in place like a deer trapped in headlights. The longer he stayed here on Earth—and in the bunker—the less willing he was to return to his own world. But the reason why still eluded Dean. After all, they had given Castiel no reason to stay. What was there for him here? What was worth being here when his brothers and sisters were suffering back home?

“We don’t know,” Dean admitted.

Castiel took another hesitant step backward. His eyes darted around the room as if taking it all in for the last time. His fingers grazed the wall tentatively. Something inside Dean broke.

“It probably isn’t your portal, Castiel,” Dean said gently, “Sam just thinks it’s safer for us to go together. You know, because of the beautiful shiner he got the last time.”

Castiel frowned and tilted his head slightly.

“The bruised eye,” Dean clarified for him.

“Oh,” Castiel said and nodded in understanding.

Dean gestured again for the angel to follow and this time Castiel did without argument, though there remained a perceivable tension in his posture and a hesitance in his stride. Dean walked ahead of him to the garage and checked the contents of the trunk, ensuring it was fully stocked with everything they could possibly need. With the uncertainty of these portals and the worlds they led to, Dean believed they were still completely unprepared. Castiel opened the car door with some difficulty and settled himself in the backseat, and Dean closed the door behind him to save him the trouble.

This was the moment he was dreading.

Dean sat down in the driver’s seat and started the ignition, purposely avoiding the rear-view mirror as he drove up the driveway and out of the bunker. But he couldn’t evade it forever. He couldn’t escape the ghost he had been seeing everywhere. He sighed heavily and finally peered up to the mirror. Castiel was gazing out the window, watching as the world flew by. His blue eyes were alight with intrigue and wonderment. And Dean speculated how long it had been since the angel last saw a clear blue sky. How long it had been since he last saw the sun glistening over water and highlighting the greenery of life.

How long had it been since Castiel truly saw the Earth—if he ever really got the chance before it all fell into destruction and chaos?

Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably and his hands tightened on the wheel. He didn’t look back at Castiel again for the remainder of the long drive. The three of them sat in complete silence. Sam continuously cast looks between them, urging Dean with his eyes to say something, but Dean refused to give in. What was there to say? This was the first day in a number of weeks that Dean had actually spoken to Castiel since the cassette tapes—which he often heard playing in the late hours of the night whenever he and Sam were supposed to be asleep. In the morning, Dean would enter the library to find everything looking completely untouched. But he suspected that something was amiss. Eventually, Castiel had made a mistake and left a tape in the stereo. Dean had turned it on and listened, trying hard to convince himself that none of this mattered.

Castiel didn’t matter.

The tape actually once belonged to his father, but it was mostly Mary’s music, and it was as beautiful as she was. It was more to her taste than Dean’s of course. But Dean listened to it often. Some nights Sam would be in bed but Dean would be awake and wandering the halls, sleep eluding him until sunrise. And he would put that cassette in and play it real soft. Dean would sit by the speakers, looking foolish there in his pyjamas with his eyes wet with unshed tears.

Like a lost, terrified little boy.

And Cas knew this. Dean had once told him—the night Cas had overheard the gentle melody and followed it to find Dean sitting there with his head in his hands. Cas had been awkward at first, stepping from one foot to the other and hesitating in the doorway. But then he had simply pulled up a chair and sat beside him. And Dean had told him why it mattered. And Cas had understood.

Castiel _didn’t_ understand.

Dean could barely focus on the road and his foot was steadily pressing down harder on the accelerator. He knew he was going over the speed limit, but on a long open road like this, he could probably get away with it. Inwardly, he vowed to confiscate that cassette when they got home—Castiel hadn’t earned the right to hear it.

“Dean,” Sam warned, eyeing the speed dial with apprehension.

Dean eased off the accelerator. Sam let out a faint sigh of relief and visibly relaxed, his long legs loosening and taking up even more of the front seat. Looking again in the rear-view mirror, Castiel seemed totally oblivious to the changing speeds. He was still enthralled by the view from his window rather than the happenings of the front seat. Dean shook his head minutely and tried to remain attentive to the road this time, listening now as Sam began to give directions.

The nearer they got to the portal, the more anxious Dean felt. He actually felt a little sick—dizzy and feverish with a horrible churning inside his gut. What if it _was_ Castiel’s portal? Despite all his aversions to the angel and the numerous ways he had tried to evade him, Dean thought that maybe he truly wasn’t ready to see him go. Dean didn’t feel ready to say goodbye.

Dean had become used to—maybe even dependent—on the ghost he often saw in Castiel. He always claimed an unyielding hatred for Castiel and everything he represented… but, deep down, Dean needed him.

“There, up ahead,” Sam said and successfully interrupted Dean’s train of thought.

Dean slowed down as the neared the glowing light of the open portal. He pulled up to a stop a safe distance away and got out, peering at the burning crack in time and space over the roof of the car. Even from here he could tell it was already closing. By now he recognised the way the light dimmed and the tear thinned at the ends, steadily shrinking in on itself. He knew they didn’t have much time to investigate. If it was apocalypseland, they may not have adequate time to find Mary. But they would be left with no other choice than to free Castiel—knowing the chance might never present itself again.

There would not be enough time for goodbyes. Dean still hadn’t decided what he would say when the time came. No words seemed enough. There wasn’t a way in which he could encapsulate the life he had shared with Cas in a single sentence. It was his one chance to say everything Cas never got to hear—everything Dean now desperately wished he could tell him. But now that the moment threatened to appear, everything had been swept away from him. He was speechless. Dean brought his clenched fist to his lips. They were bone dry, just like his tongue, and his fingers felt cold as if all the life had drained from them. He felt physically sick. He feared he actually would be sick if he were to move even a single step. But then Castiel instinctively stood at his side, looming far too close the same way Cas often did. Dean was aware of his presence before he saw him in his peripheral vision, and somehow it helped—knowing he had an angel watching over him still. Dean lowered his hand and unclenched his fist. Sam gestured for the two of them to follow. Castiel remained close to Dean’s side as they all neared the portal.

“Wait here,” Sam instructed and retrieved the demon blade from his belt. He hesitated only briefly before stepping through the portal, the edges glowing brightly for the seconds it took for him to travel between worlds.

Castiel and Dean waited—Dean ready to follow after him if he sensed trouble. They both watched the steadily shrinking portal and Castiel reached out his hands to touch it. Dean caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” he warned.

Castiel blinked innocently at him. “Isn’t getting rid of me part of the plan?” he asked.

“It’s a little more specific than that,” Dean muttered uncomfortably. His grip tightened around Castiel’s wrist.

“Why?”

“Sam thinks we’d be messing with the natural order of things if we sent you through any portal other than your own.”

“But you don’t agree?”

Dean hesitated and looked at his feet in shame. “I think I just don’t care as much as I probably should.”

Castiel lowered his hands, but Dean didn’t let go.

“Then why not just let me leave?” Castiel was quiet. He seemed to lean closer to Dean, leaving very little space between them.

“Do you really want to go?” Dean asked timidly.

He was afraid of either answer. Dean neither wanted Castiel to stay or to go, and no amount of thought had lessened his confliction. Instead, he simply lost sleep and steadily drank—making more of an effort to clean up after himself to hide how much liquor he actually consumed—and tried to lose himself in cases that failed to present themselves. Nothing had truly helped.

Before Castiel could respond, Sam appeared through the portal. He appeared a tad taken aback, but completely unharmed, and Dean could tell by his expression that it wasn’t the world they were looking for. This wasn’t Castiel’s portal. Dean’s relief was tainted with doubt. He couldn’t justly say which of the two he should be feeling. The goodbye—still with no suitable words—sat idle at the tip of his tongue.

He didn’t need to share his grief today. Dean could hold onto Cas just that little bit longer.

Sam clapped Dean once on the shoulder, eyeing him pointedly before peering down at Dean’s hand that was still holding onto Castiel’s wrist. Dean immediately let go and crossed his arms tightly, automatically shifting away from Castiel and putting more space between them. Sam cleared his throat and went back to the car, leaving the two of them alone to watch the portal.

Dean retrieved his gun from his belt and prepped it to fire if need be. Considering Sam’s lack of concern, he doubted he would need it, but he knew it was best to remain vigilant nevertheless.

“You should wait in the car,” Dean said.

“Dean—,” Castiel started.

“Go wait with Sam,” Dean ordered, refusing to meet his gaze.

He needed a moment alone. He hoped that the isolation might help him make sense of the conflicted thoughts that were rattling around inside his head. Castiel left him and the portal finally sealed shut, yet Dean still found himself lost with no answers. There was no resolution to any of his doubts or his fears or his anguish.

Dean had nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

On the drive home, Castiel requested a cassette to be played on the car radio. Dean wordlessly dug around in the glove compartment, never looking away from the road, and selected the first one he touched. He put it on and kept the volume relatively low, purposely avoiding Castiel’s face in the rear-view mirror. He couldn’t stand to see that appreciative expression on his face. Dean couldn’t watch his eyes come alight with elation. It was far too humanising. Too much like Cas.

Sam nudged Dean’s arm and shot him a questioning look, clearly confused as to how and when Castiel became interested in music. Dean dismissed him with a small shake of his head, but Sam persisted and nudged him again harder. Dean couldn’t begin to explain it. Sam looked afraid almost—or rather worried. Sam’s brow furrowed and his jaw clenched as if forcing himself not to say whatever horrible things he was thinking. Dean had no idea what they were, but he knew he wouldn’t wish to hear them. He turned up the music a little bit, making it clear to Sam that he refused to discuss it here—or probably anywhere. Sam sighed and shifted closer to his window.

“It’s been so long since I last saw this beautiful Earth,” Castiel said from the backseat.

Dean’s eyes shot to the mirror; he couldn’t help himself.

Castiel gazed out the window in amazement with what could only be described as such a profound love for all that he never had but still somehow lost. For all the angel had seen over the millennia of his existence, nothing entranced him more than Earth. Dean could see it. He just knew. But then something in Castiel’s expression turned sad. The light in his eyes dimmed. The faint suggestion of a smile faded from the corners of his lips.

His wonderment ceased to exist and was instead stolen by a sense of sorrow.

This wasn’t Castiel’s Earth. He and his fellow angels had allowed their Earth to fall into chaos, the perils of war destroying all that was good. Castiel had been left with nothing but ash and blood, the landscape nothing more than a battlefield on which everyone died. For years he had seen nothing more than a blinding hatred and the disrepair of all that they had done.

Dean sensed Castiel’s regret. His pain.

And he finally understood why it was that perhaps Castiel wished to stay.

Without giving it much thought, Dean turned the car around—driving over double lines to do so—and went back the way they had come. He stared straight ahead with conviction, pressing down on the accelerator again despite already surpassing the speed limit.

“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam asked.

Dean didn’t answer him and just kept on driving. They passed the turnoff where the portal had been and continued on to the nearest lake which was at least another half hour from there. He slowed down as they neared it and went steadily over the slightly uneven dirt terrain to be close to the water’s edge. Dean got out of the car, ignoring Sam’s questions and protests, and opened Castiel’s door. The angel slowly got out, staring at Dean as if asking if this were okay. Dean nodded faintly and watched as Castiel carefully tread down to the water.

Sam stepped around the car and stood beside Dean who was now leaning against the hood. Together they watched the angel as he turned his face to the sky and allowed the sun to kiss his skin. The wind gently swept through his hair and blew the fabric of his trench coat around his legs—much the same way it had done to Cas in that old photograph Dean found in his Bible. Dean imagined Castiel opening his arms to the world, were it not for the cuffs keeping his hands in place. He was finally getting the chance to appreciate everything he had lost back home. All that he had never been granted even before the war, with all of Heaven firm in its inhuman resolve.

“Dean—,” Sam murmured tensely, “what are you doing?”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Dean dismissed him, “his hands are still cuffed. He can’t go anywhere.”

“That’s not what I mean…”

“Then what _do_ you mean?” Dean scuffed the dirt with his foot.

“I’m worried—,”

“As I said, he can’t just zap away.”

“Dean,” Sam repeated sternly, “I’m not worried about _him_. I’m worried about _you_.”

Dean scoffed and kicked the ground again; a little more forcefully this time. He had heard the speeches one too many times. There was always something: his drinking, his aggression on hunts, or the constant refusal to communicate. He’d heard it all time and time again.

“I’m worried that maybe you’re getting attached,” Sam said quietly, perhaps afraid that Castiel could hear them. They kept their eyes trained on him and he made no movement to suggest he had overhead anything.

“He isn’t _Cas_ ,” Sam continued, “I see the way you look at him sometimes, Dean… but it _isn’t_ Cas.”

Dean ignored him, but his hands clenched into fists at his sides and his skin rushed hot then cold. His heart drummed aggressively inside his chest, the pulse coursing through him and momentarily deafening his ears of everything other the heavy beat. Sam knew all that Dean had been trying to deny to himself for all this time. Sam knew Dean was seeing ghosts.

He knew Dean saw Castiel and wished like crazy it was Cas.

Dean cleared his throat and got back into the car, closing the door behind him perhaps a little more forcefully than he had intended. When Sam attempted to walk around to the passenger side, Dean locked the doors and turned the stereo back on, dialling the volume up much higher than necessary to drown out anything and everything.

Then Dean gazed out his window and watched as Cas smiled to the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! A relatively short chapter this time, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! Please let me know what you thought in the comments, as I always love reading your feedback :D


	8. Chapter 8

Dean circled the table once before selecting a chair and sitting down. Or rather stumbling down and almost slipping off the edge to the floor. He was sober enough to steady himself and kick his feet up onto the table, but the room wasn’t entirely in focus. He could navigate his way from one room to the next without incident, but all the details in between had faded into oblivion. Dean sipped his beer—having actually forgotten how many he’d had already—and idly peeled the edges of the label off.

Sam had gone out sometime before to run errands like fuelling up the Impala and stocking up their fridge and pantry. The time had already eluded Dean, so for all he knew, Sam had been gone for less than an hour or over two. He couldn’t particularly find it in himself to care. Knowing he couldn’t possibly feign sobriety after this particular binge, Dean reminded himself to go to bed the moment he heard Sam coming in.

Dean crumpled the beer label into a tiny ball and flicked it onto the table. He sat up to see where it had landed, eventually half standing from his chair to gaze down at the initials he and Sam had carved there a few months prior. ' _SW DW'_. Since then, Dean had carved _'C'_ alongside them. At the time, it seemed only right to etch Cas’ legacy permanently with theirs. After all, they owed him their lives. The world could never have been saved without Cas—Dean would never have found the strength. He would have been a burden on his brother. The let-down. The one to be defeated purely by the raw terror of it all.

Fighting the fight, all the while believing he could never win.

Cas’ name belonged there.

Perhaps one day, after he and Sam had long since perished, other hunters would reside in the bunker, continuing the work the Winchesters had lived to do, and they would see those initials. Maybe they would learn who their predecessors were and what they had done—the good and the bad—and they’d see that ' _C'_ and know that Cas was the angel that had fallen for humanity.

The one angel who had truly loved God’s creation more than God Himself.

Dean needed someone to know and remember who Cas was once he was no longer around to do it. One day Dean would meet the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun. Or, improbably, he’d live to a ripe old age until his body went to the worms and his bones turned to dust.

There was no escaping death. He was at peace with that.

But he wasn’t quite ready for his name to be forgotten. Dean didn’t need to be remembered as a hero—he actually preferred not to be—but to not be remembered at all was a concept that terrified him. More than he would ever care to admit.

To die in body and soul was serene. But to die in spirit was something else entirely.

It was the same as never having existed in the first place. Everything he had done and endured would have been for nothing.

And Cas did not deserve to perish like that. To die so completely and irrevocably.   

Dean remembered carving Cas’ legacy that day. He remembered his hand being coated with ash and littered with blisters.  The knife was blunt from carving through branch after branch. His hands had been worn—weathered by the all too familiar task of building a pyre. The blisters and cuts to his skin had made it painful to hold the knife and to apply the pressure needed to carve into the wood. But he had endured, forcing the blunt edge down to etch the memory of Cas there on the table, splitting the sores on his skin and bleeding onto the handle. When he had set the knife down, there remained an imprint of his blood and Cas’ ash.

Dean remembered everything. The effort. The cost. The fear of forgetting Cas bleeding into the task. And he hoped it was worth it—he hoped he hadn’t failed Cas one last time; even in death.

Dean traced the _‘C’_ slowly, gently grazing the marking with his thumb. Still slightly intoxicated, he felt a bit woozy and out of place. The sensation in his legs had dulled to a faint numbness and he felt unsteady on his feet; almost as if he were swaying on the spot like a boat on the sea. He leaned against the table, applying most of his weight on one arm. Yet he remained shaky. His fingers trembled over the carving.

“Dean?” Cas asked.

Dean hadn’t heard Castiel coming into the room—he never did—and he jumped at the interruption. Automatically, he withdrew his hand from the carving and retrieved his beer, purposely sipping from it and acting aloof. He stood upright—or rather as upright as his fuzzy intoxication would actually allow—and acknowledged Castiel with a faint nod of his head. His heart was still racing from the unexpected company.

For a moment, he had truly believed it was Cas and not Castiel.

“Sam’s out,” Dean said, trying to dismiss the angel.

“I know,” Castiel said.  He failed to realise he had interrupted anything and stood there staring at Dean from the opposite side of the table. Even when Dean gave him a pointed look, he remained completely unaware that he wasn’t truly welcome there.

Dean found it impossible to deny or forcefully turn away that naïve look on Castiel’s face so he merely sighed and took another drink, grudgingly accepting the angel’s proximity. Castiel said nothing and continued to stare, though his gaze began to drift to the mostly empty pack of beer on the table. Curious, Castiel half reached for a bottle before pausing.

“May I?” he asked Dean.

Dean shrugged dismissively, though his intrigue had genuinely sparked. Castiel had never asked for a beverage or meal of any kind—due to the fact he didn’t need to eat or drink—but he hadn’t asked for many any other luxuries either. The first time had been when he had requested a cassette on the drive home from the last portal. This was the second. And, again, Dean found it impossible to deny him. Dean realised, with some apprehension, that he would likely give Castiel anything he asked for at this moment. Dean was in no position to refuse any request, no matter how absurd or dangerous or downright idiotic. He was gazing at the angel through tunnel vision, his judgement impaired by the alcohol and the forever lingering desperation deep in the pit of his soul.

Castiel selected a beer and opened it, giving the contents a cautious sniff before daring to taste it. He scrunched up his nose in apparent disgust, and Dean mused over the idea that perhaps it smelt entirely different to Castiel than it did to him. Finally, Castiel brought the bottle to his lips and tested the taste, very barely allowing any of it to even touch his tongue. He shook his head in immediate alarm and recoiled, eyeing the beer with distrust.

It took all of Dean’s restraint not to laugh.

“So? What’s the verdict?” Dean asked.

Castiel took another wary sip and smacked his lips distastefully, but at least his second reaction wasn’t as severe as the first.

“It isn’t appetizing,” he said honestly. He seemed to consider it for a moment before elaborating further. “But the molecular structure is… passable,” he decided finally.

Dean scoffed. He couldn’t contain his laughter this time, chuckling quietly and grinning despite himself. He sank back down into his seat, finally allowing himself to relax in Castiel’s presence. This felt easy. Too easy. A part of him knew he ought not to give into this without a fight. But he also knew, and Sam knew, he was already losing. The worst part was that he didn’t care. If anything, Dean _wanted_ to lose. He imagined how good it would feel to simply fold beneath his own forbidden will, to just allow his vision to irreversibly blur and to see exactly what he wanted. To see Cas without the burden of deep down knowing it was someone else.

Dean truly began to consider the prospect and wondered if it was possible; if he really could do such a thing.

He looked at Castiel and tried it. Dean looked at Castiel and allowed Cas’ ghost to come into focus. And Dean saw him. Castiel must have taken some time to neaten his appearance: washing the dirt from his face and combing his usually dishevelled dark hair. His tie had been refastened at his neck—though forever twisted the wrong way round despite his efforts—and perhaps he had even attempted to wash the stains of his old world from his coat in the sink. It was such a human thing to do. A Cas thing. And Dean wondered how he hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps it was because he had been trying so hard to look without seeing. But now he couldn’t look away.

Dean looked at Castiel and saw all of Cas.                                             

Cas came around to his side of the table and stood just beyond Dean’s shoulder. He leaned forward and touched the carved _‘C’_ just the way Dean had done. His fingers traced the wood with just as much care and grace, almost as if he already knew what it meant.

“C as in Cas, right?” He asked gently.

Dean nodded and brought his fist to his lips again. He watched Cas, gazing up at him in longing and remorse. Dean wanted him to be closer. To touch him. To embrace him and feel the fabric of that familiar coat beneath his hands just one more time. Dean wanted to feel the warmth of Cas in his arms again.

“Did he do this?” Castiel asked, gesturing to the carving.

Dean’s chest ached. The tremor in his already weak legs took the last ounce of strength from his knees. The fist against his lips turned cold, his fingers becoming pale as he clenched them too tight for too long. Cas was fading away. The more questions Castiel asked, the harder it was to escape the truth.

“N… no,” Dean stammered quietly, “Cas never got the chance.”

He took a large swig from his beer and set the empty bottle down. Castiel moved in closer to Dean, leaning over more to get a better look at the carved letters of their initials. His coat brushed against Dean’s arm. The hairs on Dean’s arms stood on end and he shivered.

Dean unsteadily stood up from his chair and turned to face Castiel who didn’t think to back away or make room, so they were suddenly standing very close together. Dean wasn’t ready to lose Cas again—to stop seeing him. Castiel turned slightly and looked at Dean, his blue eyes glistening with apology and understanding. Dean could so easily fall into those eyes.

Without pausing for thought, Dean grabbed the collar of Castiel’s coat and pulled him in closer, kissing him suddenly. The angel stood still with his hands stiff at his sides, his whole body tensing and his lips remained frozen against Dean’s. Dean’s grip on Castiel’s coat tightened, scrunching the material up in his fists and holding on for dear life. And then Castiel kissed him back slowly. His shoulders began to relax and he awkwardly moved his hands to Dean’s waist, unsure as to where else he ought to put them.

Knowing some of the shows Castiel watched in the privacy of his room, Dean knew Castiel had at least seen people kiss. At the very least he understood what the action was, and perhaps he even had a loose understanding of why people did it. And he was kissing Dean back.

Dean moved his hands to the back of Castiel’s neck and tangled his fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss and melting into him. Castiel tightened his grip on Dean’s waist, and Dean’s heart soared. They both withdrew for a moment, Dean for some air and Castiel for a sense of clarity. Everything had happened so suddenly that neither of them knew where to go from there. But as Dean gazed into those blue eyes, something inside him wanted to cry. Forcing the sensation back, Dean kissed the angel again, and he desperately pulled at his clothes and touched every inch of skin he could reach. He wrapped the material of Castiel’s tie around his hand and pulled him in closer again. And Castiel moved with him, kissing him back with a little less conviction and a lot more uncertainty.

And Dean thought: _I’m kissing Cas. And Cas is kissing me._

Suddenly, the door at the top of stairs closed with a loud clang and Dean and Castiel quickly parted from one another, but Sam had already seen. Castiel, still stunned by what had happened, slowly adjusted his askew tie and fixed some of the buttons on his shirt that had become undone from Dean’s desperate hands tugging at his clothes. His hair was now a dishevelled mess. Dean brought his fist to his lips and rubbed them, knowing they probably looked swollen from the kissing, and his eyes were littered with guilt and embarrassment.

Sam was speechless. He stood at the top of the stairs and stared down in horror at what he had just witnessed. When Dean finally met his eyes, something in Sam’s expression turned pitiful, like he had always known that Dean was this weak and broken thing. Dean couldn’t stand to have his brother look at him that way. His jaw tensed and he brusquely grabbed another beer and opened it, drinking quickly and consuming a quarter of the bottle in one go.

Sam came down the stairs and gently took Castiel by the elbow, wordlessly guiding him away. Castiel allowed it but seemed unsure, and maybe even unwilling, to go. There was a hesitance in his step that Dean couldn’t help but notice and hold onto. But he didn’t argue and left with Sam. And Sam returned a few minutes later without him.

“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam asked, exasperated.

Dean shook his head and took another quick drink, purposely turning his back in a futile attempt to conceal just how intoxicated he was, and just how lost he had become. He knew that what he had done was wrong, and he understood what made it wrong… and whilst he felt guilt at being caught, he did not regret doing it. Castiel had filled the void where Cas used to be, and kissing him made Dean feel whole again.

“Don’t do this, Dean,” Sam pleaded, “I understand you miss Cas… and I know you loved him. Believe me, I know. But you _can’t_ do this.”

Dean nodded dismissively, very barely trying to appease Sam. He wasn’t willing to apologise and he wasn’t willing to admit fault. He finished the last of his beer and set the empty bottle down on the table, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Sam watched him with his chest heaving. He was at a loss as to what more he could say or do.

“I think I’m gonna go for a drive,” Dean said and picked up the keys from where Sam had set them down.

“Dean, you’re absolutely hammered,” Sam argued.

“I’m fine,” Dean shrugged him off and walked past him, struggling to walk a straight line.

He _was_ drunk. Too drunk to safely drive, but he needed to get away, even if it meant just sitting in the still car for an hour or two.

“Any other stupid decisions you wanna make?” Sam demanded to know, following after him furiously.

“If I think of any, I’ll let you know,” Dean muttered and closed the door between them.

He went to his car and clumsily got in, slamming the door shut and jamming the keys in the ignition. He turned the stereo on, still playing the same cassette from the other day, and he leaned his head back against the seat. There he remained for a few hours, knowing he really shouldn’t even attempt to drive though he wanted nothing more than to be out on the road with the wind blowing in through his open window. But there was too good a chance that he wouldn’t make it back alive.

Sam never came out after him, and Dean was thankful for it.

Dean’s thoughts turned to Castiel, and he wondered if Castiel was thinking of him too. He remembered the way Castiel’s hands had held onto his waist and the comfort of his strong hands. He remembered the way Castiel had kissed him back, his lips parting for Dean. And he remembered having the material of Cas’ tie and coat in his hands.

Dean fell asleep wishing he had never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Just a short chapter this time, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same. This will be the last chapter up for a little while since I'll be away for about a week or so, but I will be back with more as soon as I can! Let me know what you thought in the comments, as I always love your feedback! :D


	9. Chapter 9

“We’re not going to make it, Dean!”

Sam gestured at the GPS on his phone, his hands moving fast and flustered. Dean couldn’t possibly see the small screen from the driver’s seat, particularly with his attention on the frequently winding road, with the dial on the speedometer inching farther and farther from the legal limit. With Sam’s constant complaints and impatient commands to go faster, Dean couldn’t even hear the GPS telling him where to go when, which had resulted in them having to turn around at least twice already.

As Sam became more frustrated, so did Dean.

All the while, Castiel remained silent and still in the back seat, sitting poised with his hands patiently clasped in his lap, the cuffs loose at his wrists. He hadn’t said a word for the last three hours. Instead, he watched the world through the window, his eyes glistening and eager to be out there rather than in here.

And Dean secretly echoed the sentiment.

Dean didn’t want to be here driving out to the middle of nowhere to investigate yet another portal. He didn’t want to sit for so many hours dreading what lay waiting for them—the split in time and space that threatened to take Castiel home.

Or kill them all, if he really wanted to look on the bright side of things.

“Dean, seriously, you _have to_ step on it,” Sam insisted.

“Sam, seriously, you _need_ to shut the hell up,” Dean snarled.

But he still did as Sam said and pressed down harder on the accelerator. If there happened to be a police officer patrolling the area now… well, Dean would likely end up with worse than a ticket. Particularly since there was the distinct possibility he was above the legal blood alcohol limit if they happened to breathalyse him—and, at the speed he was going, they most certainly would.

“We’ve missed the last three portals,” Sam reminded him for what felt like the millionth time, “and those were the ones we even knew about.”

“You think I’ve forgotten?” Dean grumbled, “You don’t need to keep telling me every ten god damn minutes.”

“Well, clearly I do, Dean, because so far you’ve been the reason why we’re missing them,” Sam argued.

“You really want to go there? Right now?”

Things had been tense between Sam and Dean ever since Dean was caught kissing Castiel. Neither of them had spoken much, and when either of them dared to open their mouths they only ever argued. Dean was still unwilling to discuss what had happened—or rather what Sam had seen. He still had no regrets about what he had done, but rather just for getting caught. Ever since then, Dean had found himself wishing for Castiel to be near and hoping to see him in the halls or to overhear him by the stereo listening to Dean’s cassettes.

But, mysteriously, Dean had been seeing Castiel less and less around the bunker. And he suspected Sam was to blame.

Whenever Dean did happen to see Castiel either traversing from his room or back into it, Castiel had paused and gazed at him with what Dean could only describe as a curious longing. Once or twice, Castiel had bitten his lip and hesitated a step or two in his direction, both times swiftly turning away upon hearing Sam somewhere in the distance. Dean couldn’t even imagine what Sam had said to him, but apparently, his words had been severe enough for Castiel to keep his distance. Castiel chose to avoid him and tried to feign disinterest despite evidence to the contrary that suggested he wanted nothing more than to be close to Dean.

And Dean resented Sam for it.

Their bad blood had thickened and left them almost entirely incapable of working with one another. Even now as they sped towards what could very well be the world they had spent all these months looking for. The one that imprisoned their mother—assuming she was even still alive. The world where Lucifer loomed, probably pissed and eager for vengeance.

The dimension in which Castiel truly belonged but Dean no longer wished for him to return to.

There was no hope for Sam and Dean to reconcile now. Dean knew he would find it hard to forgive him when they inevitably returned Castiel to his own world, abandoning the angel in the apocalypse to suffer in the ruins of Earth and eventually die at the hands of a demon. Dean didn’t want to picture it, but he couldn’t force the thought from his mind. It came to him in his sleep or on drives like these. Times when it was quiet and he was faced with the prospect that these nightmares could become a reality.

They had missed multiple portals, arriving either just as they closed or occasionally long after. It wasn’t entirely Dean’s fault. After all, the portals were unpredictable. They had missed many in the past. But Sam had only just begun accusing Dean for it. And Dean couldn’t honestly dismiss the accusations and call it utter nonsense derived from unrelated anger. Dean _had_ been finding ways to sabotage their ventures: purposely driving too slow or getting lost or ‘forgetting’ to fuel up the Impala after the last lengthy drive.

Dean knew his actions were inexcusable. He knew why he should be seeking the portal to apocalypse-land. He wanted to save Mary just as desperately as Sam did… yet, Dean couldn’t bring himself to do what needed to be done. He certainly tried. But his fears defeated him. His dread for what was to come left him incapable of sacrificing his angel.

Each time, Dean tried to convince himself: _just one more day. He can stay one more day._

But the truth was bound to catch up with him sooner rather than later.

“Up ahead,” Sam said and pointed to a distant yellow glow. “You see it?”

“Yeah, I see it,” Dean muttered grudgingly.

He pulled up at the side of the road, purposely parking further from the portal than was actually necessary. He was delaying as long as could justly get away with without later having to endure Sam’s lengthy, infuriated lectures.

Sam was the first out of the car, digging in the trunk for an array of weaponry. Dean lagged behind him. He wordlessly opened the back door for Castiel who stepped out and stared ahead at the portal with a furrowed brow.

“Something’s wrong,” Castiel said.

“What?” Dean asked. His heart suddenly started to pound inside his chest. A heat flushed up his neck and into his cheeks.

Was this it?

Was this Castiel’s portal?

“Demons,” Castiel clarified.

“Ours or theirs?” Sam asked, immediately on high alert. He pulled the demon knife from his belt and held it poised and ready to use if need be.

Dean sifted through the open trunk and retrieved an angel blade. He noticed Castiel eyeing it warily for a brief moment before turning his attention back to the portal.

“It’s hard to say,” Castiel frowned.

“Clearly we aren’t the only interested party,” Sam mumbled and gestured for the two of them to follow his lead.

Castiel automatically walked close to Dean’s side, his cuffed hand brushing against Dean’s unrestrained one. Dean carefully reached with his fingers to touch the back of Castiel’s hand, brushing against the skin of his knuckles and then feeling the warmth of his palm. Castiel gently squeezed his fingers before letting go, somehow anticipating Sam turning around just in time.

“I don’t see anything?” Sam said to Castiel, “do you hear them? Sense them?”

“Smell them,” Castiel corrected, “I smell sulphur. But it’s faint.”

“So you think they’re gone?” Dean asked. He knew it wasn’t wise to be hopeful.

“No. I just think they’re on the other side,” Castiel nodded toward the portal.

Even from here, it was evident that the portal wouldn’t remain open for much longer. The edges were already creeping inward and the glowing light flickered and dimmed. There was always the risk that one of them could become trapped in an alternate world. They couldn’t risk taking more time than absolutely necessary on the other side. Usually, one of them went through alone whilst the other remained on Earth, prepared to follow if necessary or to seek the same portal in future to find and rescue the other. But this time, with the threat of demons looming ahead, Sam insisted they both go through together.

“What about Cas?” Dean asked.

“ _Castiel_ will come with us,” Sam said sternly, emphasising Castiel’s name, “but keep him close.”

Dean made a point of clasping the chain between the two cuffs around Castiel’s wrist, their arms entwining together in such a way that made Sam’s nostrils flare. But he didn’t argue, considering he had given the instruction to keep Castiel close. They walked together to the very edge of the portal and paused before stepping through.

And then they all wished they hadn’t.

The three of them were simultaneously struck with a sudden power that swept them off their feet. Dean’s grasp on Castiel’s cuffs slipped entirely and the two of them were quickly separated. The pain at the base of his spine from his hard landing left Dean momentarily paralysed, but he tried, hopelessly, to sit up and search for his brother and his angel. Groaning, he clawed himself into an awkward half sitting position and scanned his surroundings. Before he could make sense of their location or where the others were, he was hit with a knee to the face. His vision blurred at the impact, his nose immediately dripping blood, and he recoiled at the crack of the bone breaking.

Again, he was struck at the head, this time a fist uppercutting at his chin. Dean fell back into the dirt. Desperately, he tightened his grip on the angel blade and swung blindly with it, somehow cutting into flesh. There was a furious cry and the sound of feet shuffling and a weight falling to one knee. Distantly, Dean could hear Sam suffering under what he assumed was a similar torment.

But he couldn’t hear Castiel.

He immediately thought the worst: Castiel lying dead somewhere with an angel blade embedded between his ribs, the dark etch of his wings permanently burned into the soil at his back.

Dean forced himself into a crouching position despite the pain and swiped mindlessly at his broken nose with his sleeve, smearing blood onto the material, his hand, and down his face. The blood was hot and slick at his lips and chin and tasted of old pennies as he spat to the side. The demon he had cut with the blade was kneeling before him, clutching their wounded leg in their hands and baring their teeth menacingly at him with their black eyes dense with hatred.

Dean shuffled backward and quickly stood with the angel blade held before him. The demon hesitated, eyeing the blade with trepidation as if understanding they were dealing with someone that had killed hundreds of their kind before. Dean took this opportunity to scan the area, assessing the situation with the precision his father had forced upon him since he was a child.

There were five demons.

Sam had one in a headlock with the demon knife lost somewhere at his feet. His face was concealed by blood and dirt and matted hair.

The demon before Dean dared a few steps to the left, trying to angle themselves to an advantage, and Dean adjusted his stance accordingly.

Three of the demons had taken a special interest in Castiel, circling him and moving aggressively and all at once. As they swarmed the angel, Dean felt his pulse in his ears. Castiel struck one with his cuffs arms, knocking them cleanly from their feet before ducking beneath the swing of an angel blade. The angel forced the demon's arm between his, locking it between his forearms and the cuffs before twisting and forcing the blade from their hand. But then the third knocked Castiel at his lower legs, buckling him to his knees.

Dean recklessly strode forward and braced himself against the demon, trying and failing to impale him with the blade. The demon took Dean’s arm into his hands and crushed the bone with ease as if the effort was nothing more than trivial. Dean exclaimed at the sudden agony and withdrew. The blade fell from his limp hand and thudded on the ground. The demon sidled forward with an easy smile and kicked the blade away, the metal scuttling through the thin veil of dirt and out of sight.

Dean’s heart sunk into the pit of his stomach.  

Sam was lifted off his feet by the demon that somehow managed to tower over him. Their hand clasped tightly at his throat until his face began to turn red beneath his own blood. He struggled, tugging at the demon’s hand with weak fingers, his legs flailing and losing all sense of composure as his lungs became void of air.

Dean couldn’t even see Castiel anymore. Nor could he see the three demons that had targeted him.

Dean was thrown again by a demonic force and he fell at the foot of scorched tree trunks, the ache in his back shooting up the length of his spine and almost crippling him. These demons were stronger than he was used to—better capable of honing their abilities and more practiced in hand to hand combat; not that they needed it.

They _liked_ it.

Dean suspected they could have easily wiped him and Sam out of existence if they wanted to.

But they _wanted_ to fight.

They _wanted_ to inflict pain and play with their food before eating it.

He couldn’t begin to imagine the reality of this world—what choice or twist of fate that had created this dimension in the first place. And he wasn’t interested in finding out. He wanted nothing more than to escape, as intact as he could possibly manage.

Dean crawled with his one good arm, the broken one half clasped to his chest, but he didn’t get far before being kicked violently in the ribs. He heard the bone break before he felt it and then he collapsed upon himself face first into the dirt. He gritted his teeth, forcing back the cry of agony. He refused to give these demons the benefit of his pain. He refused to give them the satisfaction they were looking for.

Suddenly, Sam managed to kick himself free from one of the demons and crawled on his hands and knees, searching wildly with his hands for the demon knife. The demon that had been pursuing Dean lost focus and turned their attention to Sam. And then Castiel appeared at Dean’s side. Dean again hadn’t even heard Castiel approaching and he startled at the voice whispering at his ear. Dean peered beyond Castiel’s shoulder and realised the angel had somehow killed two of the demons, leaving the third disoriented with a severely damaged vessel. Castiel’s coat was stained with splattered, dark blood, his face wild and threatening with the spray of red coating his skin.

Dean was reminded of the first night he had met Castiel. The night he had brought him home.

He even felt that same sense of fear like he was trapped with a feral and malicious animal.

Dean shivered.

“Unlock the cuffs,” Castiel demanded.

“What?” Dean’s head was swimming. Distantly, he could hear Sam crying out in pain.

“Free me!” Castiel commanded. He shook his cuffed hands in front of Dean, his blue eyes clouding over with untethered ferocity and inconceivable brutality—the look of his piercing stare was murderous. A pure and terrifying rage that threatened to kill them all. Dean was suddenly genuinely afraid of him.

“Free me or Sam dies,” Castiel snarled when Dean didn’t respond.

Dean fumbled with his one functioning arm and found the key to the cuffs deep in his pocket. He struggled to work the key into the lock, his fingers becoming thick and clumsy at the pressure and due to the worsening pain throughout his entire body. The blood from his wounds impaired his vision and made his hand slippery. With the shock coursing through him, he could hardly focus his attention on the task at hand, even as Castiel impatiently tried to help him.

Sam’s cries went dead silent.

Finally, the cuffs slipped from Castiel’s wrists with a metallic clatter. Two of the three demons turned at the sound.

“Close your eyes,” Castiel said sternly.

Dean did as he said, clenching his eyes shut and casting his arm across his face to block out the blindingly bright flashes of light. The bursts of white fire flickered through his eyelids still and he winced, forcing his broken body to turn away from it. He could hear the crackling of fiery flesh and the loud spark each time the light erupted all around him.

And then there was nothing.

His eyelids blinked shades of white and yellow and red as they overcame the extents of Castiel’s powers. Slowly, he allowed his arm to lower from his face, but he didn’t turn his body back—it was too torturous to do so.

“S…Sammy?” Dean called out weakly. He was terrified that he couldn’t hear his brother anymore.

“Cas?” He said into the void.

Dean blinked but saw nothing but white dots in his vision and he finally forced himself to move. He shifted on his knees and felt along the dirt for Sam or Castiel. Instead, his hand found metal and he took hold of the demon knife. He clutched onto it for dear life and listened to the faint breeze in his ears.

And then he heard the edges of the portal closing in; that crackling noise that threatened to imprison him there, maybe forever.

“Dean,” Castiel said gently.

Dean blinked again and winced at the pain in his shoulder as Castiel grabbed it. And then he was being dragged—near lifted and carried actually. He couldn’t fight even if he wanted to. Dean allowed Castiel to take him wherever he wanted, and then he felt the swift sensation of passing from one world through to the next.

He focused his gaze as best he could and very barely made out the glowing edges of the portal as they sealed shut and vanished into nothingness. And then Castiel’s warm hand caressed Dean’s cheek, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone gently.

Dean automatically leaned into the tender touch.

For a moment, he was both convinced he was going to die, and reassured that he was going to live.

Abruptly, all the pain disappeared.

The broken bones throughout Dean’s body were once again intact, the agony immediately fading from them without a trace. Dean’s sight was suddenly restored, the white blurred edges of his vision clearing and bringing Cas entirely into focus.

Dean was greeted by those warm, gentle blue eyes and he felt safe.

He felt like he had found everything he had lost.

“Dean?” Sam croaked from beside him.

Dean turned and saw his brother sitting up, all signs of injury gone with no evidence to suggest he had ever been hurt in the first place. Sam automatically reached out to him and grabbed Dean’s upper arm, squeezing it as if needing to convince himself that his brother was well and truly alive and unharmed.

“You alright?” Dean asked.

Sam nodded and peered down at himself—he could hardly believe it. Everything had happened so fast that there hadn’t really been time to retain the memory in its entirety. Dean was sure that Sam had holes his recollections the same way he did.

All Dean knew for sure was that Castiel had saved them.

Dean looked at Castiel again and saw the brief moment in which the angel hunched over. His trench coat encased him so entirely that it was impossible to think that just moments ago he had erupted with a lethal power strong enough to abolish numerous demons. Dean witnessed the few seconds of weakness. The consequence of saving them and healing them of all their wounds.

Castiel turned his face into his sleeve and breathed heavily. His arms shook. Then, he forced himself to peer up at the brothers and he got to his feet. Dean followed him, stepping closer to the angel and instinctively reaching out to touch him. Castiel withdrew from him, purposely looking to Sam and back again as if anticipating punishment.

What had Sam said to strike fear into Castiel?

What had Sam done to threaten a creature powerful enough to withstand him?

Dean was almost afraid to find out.

“We need to reconsider our strategy,” Castiel said timidly, “it appears we aren’t the only ones that are aware of these portals. Those demons were waiting. It’s fair to assume that other creatures—potentially abominations of a more destructive calibre—know about it too.”

Sam and Dean stared at Castiel, both still dumbstruck at what had happened.

“We need to be ready,” Castiel insisted firmly before turning and leaving them both behind.

Dean watched Castiel walk away… and it was the spitting image of Cas that looked back.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dean…”

Sam grabbed Dean’s wrist and pulled him a step back. Together, they stood still and watched Castiel as he disappeared around the corner and down the hall, making his way to the privacy of his own room. Once he was gone, Sam let out a faint sigh of relief and his hand loosened slightly around Dean’s arm, allowing Dean to tug himself free.

Dean strode forward and put the Enochian cuffs down on the table with a quiet clink of metal. He rubbed his brow with the back of his hand, exhausted despite being completely restored by Castiel. Even his clothes and skin were clean, all the blood and dirt vanishing at the touch of Castiel’s hand on his cheek.

“Dean, I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave him free from the cuffs,” Sam said. He kept his voice low just in case Castiel could still hear him, particularly with nothing preventing him from doing so. It was hard to anticipate what exactly he was capable of with all his power at his disposal.

“Really? After all he’s done for us?” Dean glared back at him in disbelief. “After saving our asses back there?”

“Yes, he saved us, but—,” Sam argued rationally.

“He could have gone the other way on that,” Dean interjected severely, “he could have let those demons beat us to death and taken off to god knows where and done god knows what. Had every right to considering we’ve kept him locked up for all these months.”

“I’m glad he did what he did, Dean,” Sam sighed, “of course I am. But that’s exactly why we should put the cuffs back on. _Because_ we’ve kept him prisoner for so long. He could _still_ go the other way on that…”

Dean crossed his arms tightly across his chest and clenched his jaw. He could hardly believe they were arguing about this after everything they had just been through and all that they had witnessed. They owed Castiel their lives and Sam wanted to thank him by locking him up again.

Dean hated to think that Castiel was there purely because he had to be—because he had no other choice.

“You want him locked up? Fine.” Dean picked up the cuffs and offered them to Sam. “Go right ahead. Cuff him and throw away the key—,”

“But you’re not playing any part in it?” Sam finished for him, “I’ve heard you before Dean.”

Dean winced, feeling the low blow of Sam once again repeating his own words back to him. Back when Dean wanted Castiel dead. Back when he refused to accept his presence in the bunker with them… to even accept his existence whilst Cas was gone.

“He isn’t a danger to us, Sam. That’s all I’m saying,” Dean said timidly.

“Okay, fine, let’s say he isn’t a danger to _us_ ,” Sam offered. “But tell me, Dean… what is he to _you_?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. What is he to you, Dean?”

“… I mean, shit, I dunno, a means to an end?” Dean stumbled over his answer.

“If that were true than you’d have no problem with putting him back in chains.”

“So I’m showing some basic human decency? Sue me,” Dean dismissed him and turned away.

Dean was suddenly dying for a beer. Or maybe for a much stronger liquor.

His hand tightened on the cuffs and it felt as if the metal could very well start cutting into his skin. His knuckles quickly turned white and the veins in his arms started to protrude.

“Are we ever going to talk about that kiss, Dean?” Sam asked finally.

Dean hesitated. He couldn’t run from this forever. Sam was bound to ask every day for the rest of time until Dean answered. And the longer he delayed, the worse this tension between him and Sam would become—to the point of being utterly unbearable. Each day he refused to deny his feelings for Castiel, the more space Sam would force between him and the angel.

“It was just a stupid, drunken mistake, Sam,” Dean muttered, casting his head down in apparent shame. “You were right about Cas, okay? About…” He sighed. A tightness crept into his chest and clenched around his lungs. “About me loving him. And it’s been hard letting him go…”

It was the most honest he had been in months.

“So it wasn’t about Castiel?” Sam asked.

“No. Like I said… a stupid, drunken mistake. Castiel just happened to be there,”

Dean stared at his feet. The honesty started to feel a bit tainted. It didn’t feel like a mistake to Dean. He didn’t regret what he had done. And his heart reminded him: _Castiel had kissed him back._

Sam was quiet for a moment before awkwardly clearing his throat.

“Okay,” Sam said finally. “We’ll keep the cuffs off Castiel for now… but if anything happens…”

“Then we lock him up,” Dean agreed.  

“You promise?”

“Of course… like I said, this whole thing wasn’t about Castiel,” Dean said, partially lying, “besides, he’s going back to his own world soon enough. I know that. Him and me… it’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Dean wouldn’t look at Sam as he tossed the cuffs down and left the room, claiming he was tired.

It wasn’t nothing.

And saying otherwise didn’t change a damn thing.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, or rather in the early hours of the morning not long before the sun was due to rise, Dean crept out of bed. He peered out through his open doorway to the dark hallway, half expecting to find Sam hanging around waiting for him as if anticipating Dean all along. But, as far as Dean could tell, nobody was there. The bunker was dense with silence. But he knew _he_ would be awake.

After all, angels didn’t need to sleep.

Dean carefully closed his door behind him, providing evidence to suggest he was fast asleep inside. And then he walked the few doors down to Castiel’s room and hesitated with his hand rested on the handle. Still, despite being awake for hours contemplating, Dean had no real idea what he was doing or why. He felt the need to say something but couldn’t think of the right words. The longing had been strong enough to lead him here despite rationality dictating why he should have stayed in bed.

Sighing softly, he went to lightly knock on the door but then it slowly opened before his fist even touched the wood. Castiel peered out at him in confusion, the light from the television very barely illuminating him and the room. From here, Dean couldn’t make out what he was watching. But he felt a flutter of nerves just knowing what he did in his spare time—the same thing Cas used to do.

“Dean? What are you doing here?” Castiel asked in a whisper. He opened his door a little wider, wordlessly inviting Dean inside.

Dean slipped through the open door and waited as Castiel closed it behind him.

The angel had dressed down: stripping off his coat and likely hanging it up on that lone hanger in the closet, kicking off his shoes and setting them neatly by his bed, and leaving his tie over the armrest of the chair.

Castiel looked so pure standing there. So human and free.

Something inside Dean simultaneously ached and soared.

He didn’t know what was right or wrong anymore. He was finding it harder all the time to deny the things he wanted and the things he missed. And now more than ever, he thought it impossible to ever say goodbye.

“I wanted to thank you for today,” Dean said gently. “You saved us and that…”

Dean paused and wrung his hands together nervously.

“Dean?” Castiel pushed.

“Why? Why did you save us?” Dean asked.

Castiel frowned as if the answer should have been obvious all along. But then… something in his eyes dimmed and got lost in the dark. Something inside him only just realised the answer too.

“It seemed like the right thing to do…” Castiel murmured.

Dean silently nodded and cleared his throat. It was a Cas answer. His hands tightened on one another and he pressed the pad of his palm firmly with his thumb. Suddenly, he thought it was a mistake coming here. He was taunting himself with what he couldn’t have. Looking for someone that was already gone. Dean turned to leave.

“Dean? I need to ask… I… I have to know,” Castiel said, stopping him. He came closer, reaching out a hand as if to touch Dean, but stopped before he could. “That kiss. I, uh, ever since then I’ve been trying to understand more. To learn more… but I’m struggling.”

“What?” Dean asked nervously.

“I want to know why it is a good memory for me,” Castiel clarified.

Dean peered at him. Castiel furrowed his brow and puckered his lips. He, too, was wringing his hands together in front of him. With Dean’s eyes panning up and down his body, Castiel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and his eyes bore into Dean—the stunning blue piercing right through the hunter and capturing him in place.

Dean slowly moved in closer to Castiel, his hands reaching for his waist and tentatively resting there. At his touch, Castiel leaned in closer to him, moving into him and tracing Dean’s chest with his fingers.

Dean kissed Castiel gently, their lips tender and soft together with the drunken desperation absent between them. There was nothing rushed or heated about it. Dean simply kissed him the way someone genuine and loving would. And Castiel kissed him back.

Then, once they had parted, their hands hesitating to leave one another, Dean smiled softly and left with the light of the television flashing a soft blue at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Wow... so that took a while. Sorry about the wait! With everything going on at the moment, there may be more time between chapters, but not to worry! I will still be updating both this story and my other one (Destiel: I Need You). I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know in the comments what you thought! (I'm oddly happy with this chapter... odd because I'm never happy with my writing hahaha) :D


	10. Chapter 10

Dean carried in the bags of shopping on both arms and set them down on the kitchen counter. Sam didn’t stop to peer up from his computer screen and continued to furiously type and click. By now it wasn’t at all an unfamiliar sight; Sam seemed to be researching more than he slept or ate. Dean had never envied the dedication, though he had envied Sam’s wit just as often as he felt proud of it. Dean could hardly sit for so long without breaking a sweat, his leg bouncing impatiently and his tongue thirsting for a beer. He often left the heavy work to Sam—at least whenever he could without Sam roping him into reading a boring book or two.

Then, for a long time, Cas had been there to help lighten the load. He’d sifted through thick tomes faster than the two of them combined, the hours passing like minutes as far as he was concerned—though Dean supposed that living for millennia probably made time rather irrelevant. Cas often found the answers for them in the end. That was only when he didn’t have all the answers already. Cas’ perfect angelic memory, as vast as it was, came in handy many times over the years, with the angel often able to easily confirm or dismiss the Winchesters’ theories.

Dean would have felt totally illiterate in Cas’ vicinity if it weren’t for the angel’s ever-growing understanding of humanity and all of life’s intricacies.

They helped teach one another: Cas explaining the entire process of creation (in excruciating detail). He told Dean about the molecular structure that formed the human anatomy and, most profoundly, what he considered to be the meaning of life; on which he had a confounding and unique perspective. Dean, meanwhile, explained the genius behind Led Zeppelin, the trick to starting a tab you never intend to pay off, and, jokingly, never to eat yellow snow (though Cas, in all seriousness, replied that if he ever happened upon snow that was any colour other than white, he wouldn’t think to approach it, let alone consume it).

There had been something so pure about it. And perhaps that was why Dean had already taken to teaching Castiel many similar lessons. And Castiel had been just as eager to learn, always pushing for more and seeking a complex explanation behind even the most insignificant of lessons. Yet, something felt different this time. It wasn’t that Dean felt as though he wasn’t learning as much in return, because he was, about a whole other reality no less… but the purity was tainted somehow by something just beyond Dean’s understanding. Maybe it was the difference between years to months, or perhaps it was down to being saved by the dead and not by the living.

Or, more plainly, because Castiel and Cas were not one and the same.

Sam had said it so severely, and Dean’s sense of vision was so desperate to blur, that Dean had readily denied it. He had so painfully reasoned against the matter-of-fact of it all because it hurt more not to. But there came these little things, like tiny broken shards of glass you couldn’t see but could always feel embedded in the skin of your feet, which reminded him just how that purity had felt and why it was that he wasn’t feeling it now. It left such a sour taste in his mouth, a taste that only liquor and denial could cleanse.

With his back to the others, Dean slipped a flask from his coat pocket and snuck a quick sip without tilting his head back too far. Even afraid that Sam would notice the motion of him swallowing, Dean held the strong liquor in his mouth and swallowed it slowly, burning his throat. He coughed twice into his fist and quickly slipped the flask back into his pocket, hoping he hadn’t drawn any attention to it. When he turned around, Sam was still fixated on his laptop. But Castiel wasn’t.

Castiel rested his cheek against his fist and paused midsentence, the words seemingly fading away into oblivion. His eyes flickered greedily to Dean and back again, trying with some difficulty to avoid Sam’s attention.

As of late, Castiel had been easily distracted.

He lost focus whenever Dean was in his vicinity, and it hadn’t escaped Sam’s notice.

“Castiel,” Sam said sternly. He cleared his throat and cast a wary look at Dean.

Dean turned his back again and set about unpacking the groceries, feigning innocence. He knew he was the reason why Castiel couldn’t remain attentive to the task at hand—despite that being a definitive aspect of his angelic nature. It wasn’t like an angel to lose focus or to allow such trivial things to get in the way of their mission.

But it had happened to Cas.

And now it was happening to Castiel, too.

Dean smiled to himself. It was impossible not to.

Every night, when Sam was sure to be asleep, Dean ventured to Castiel’s room and stayed there until the early hours of the morning. He’d sit comfortably on the sofa in the corner whilst Castiel sat cross-legged at the end of the bed. The TV in front of them illuminated their faces as they watched movies together. It was Dean’s idea to introduce him to more media than just music and trash television, and so far the angel seemed to be enjoying it. He usually stared at the screen with unfathomable curiosity, his lips slightly parted in intrigue, and he’d clench his knees in his hands each time a particular scene became tense or frightening. He’d often glance at Dean to observe his reactions and sometimes mimicked them, quickly learning the specific emotions certain films aroused.

And then, as time went, he started to display those emotions on his own accord without needing Dean to show him what it was he was supposed to feel.

Dean wanted to believe it was real. That Castiel was not only learning, but he was well and truly _feeling_ too. He wanted to believe that Castiel was becoming more and more human all the time and that maybe his affections for Dean could grow into love. It was a yearning Dean had but often questioned, sometimes doubting the sincerity of it. Were these affections to grow into love, would Dean truly be reciprocating the sentiment, or would he merely be pretending? It was so easy to dismiss these fears whenever he and Castiel were alone together, able to kiss and embrace and touch one another. It was only when Dean was back in his own room, curled up on his side of the oversized bed, that the doubts found crevices in which to creep through to the forefront of his mind.

Dean never dared decide what it was that he wanted.

But there the fear remained until the next night.

Every night they would sit apart despite Dean wishing he could embrace Castiel and lay with him in bed. But he didn’t want to overwhelm him and opted for the safe separation between them, only kissing him upon arriving to, and leaving, the room.

After a couple nights together, Castiel had made sense of the routine and often opened the door as Dean walked down the hall. He would grab longingly at Dean’s hand and pull him inside, very barely getting the door shut behind him before leaning in for a kiss.

Castiel no longer expected it, he now took it upon himself to initiate.

Dean melted under his touch, and he always longed for more. It took more strength than he would ever care to admit to refrain from excessive touching and more deliberate, passionate kissing. Even still, every embrace before his departure started to linger more and more. Sometimes the one kiss turned into two or three and Dean would silently chastise himself as he walked back to his room, but his cheeks also flushed an elated pink—he could only punish himself for so long before giving in to the warmth Castiel brought him.

Of course, he still fretted over the very thing that threatened his newfound sense of peace.

Despite having lied to Sam numerous times—often successfully—Dean suspected that his baby brother somehow knew exactly what was going on behind closed doors while he slept. He had appointed Dean to be in charge of groceries and beer runs and fuel-ups for the Impala, constantly keeping him in and out of the bunker and distanced from Castiel. Meanwhile, Sam worked closely with the angel, often sitting with him for hours on end with his computer propped open and various books scattered across the table. Together they were attempting to find a better method for tracking portals and plotting safer ways to investigate them without risking a repeat of the last time. Dean never got to sit in on these conversations and was always told a simplified version later on by Sam.

It felt rather dismissive in a way. As if Dean was too dim to understand and too impulsive to participate in the whole ordeal.

Or perhaps, more realistically, Sam had the false idea that Dean didn’t care.

Dean was stung by the notion despite not knowing for sure if it were true. It made him desperate to prove himself.

“What’s all this?” Dean asked after he had put away the last of the groceries. He leaned his hands down on the table and peered over Sam’s shoulder to the computer screen. Sam’s shoulders noticeably stiffened and he hefted a tired sigh before deciding to respond.

“We think that maybe the portals are opening in Jack’s vicinity, whether by accident or on purpose—”

“It’s the son of Satan… what could be accidental about all this?” Dean interjected.

“We don’t know that, Dean. I mean… Cas believed he wasn’t evil,” Sam reminded him pointedly.

Dean tensed. He didn’t need to be reminded. It was impossible for him to forget.

“Yeah, and look how that worked out,” Dean muttered sourly.

Castiel frowned at him and sat upright, lifting his cheek from his fist. Dean sat opposite Sam and avoided Castiel’s gaze, knowing he wanted to ask questions and offer comfort of some kind—to whatever extent he could without fully understanding the situation or the despair that was eating Dean up inside.

With Sam’s words, that mirror image between the two angels began to crack.

“Anyway,” Sam continued on after a minute of uncomfortable silence. “We’re trying to devise a way we can track the Nephilim. If we can find him then maybe we can find the portals or even stop them altogether.”

“Track him how exactly? I think he can’t be found if he doesn’t want to be.”

“It’s worth a try, Dean,” Sam said; ever the optimist.

“It’s part angel—part archangel, to be exact,” Castiel said, “power like that always draws attention, even if it doesn’t want it too.”

Dean didn’t respond. He mindlessly traced the tabletop with his fingertips, drawing patterns in his mind. He was hoping to rebuild what Sam had partially broken down. He was trying to regain what had so quickly become lost. And he couldn’t do that by allowing that distinction between Castiel and Cas to set in stone—for the edges to be coloured in a bold black line, never to be erased.

“Castiel thinks it may be possible to follow the energy Jack emits. Kind of like a beacon,” Sam explained finally.

“But you haven’t figured out how yet?” Dean asked knowingly.

“Well… no, not yet,” Sam admitted, “but we’re working on it. It’s a bit hard to put theory like this into practice, you know? And we don’t want to waste time on what probably won’t even work.”

“Seems like a waste of time to find something without knowing how to kill it,” Dean said.

“Assuming we even need to kill him, Dean,” Sam sighed.

“We do,” Castiel interjected, “I keep telling you, Sam, power like that isn’t safe in anyone’s hands. Let alone in the hands of the Lucifer’s son.”

“Castiel, with all due respect, but you have no say in this,” Sam retaliated. Dean actually flinched at the venom in his voice. Castiel, however, didn’t even blink.

“Actually, Sam, I’ll think you’ll find that it is _you_ who has no say in this,” Castiel sat forward in his chair. “If there’s one thing I have learned since being dragged into this world, it’s that you humans have such a tiny perspective on a much bigger picture. I’m talking about power that is well out of the realms of your understanding. I’m talking about a boot stomping on an ant, and all of creation is the ant. There is no question about killing this thing. There is no moral argument against saving the abomination—,”

“You shoot first and ask questions later,” Dean supplied for him.

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend trying to shoot it,” Castiel said seriously, “but, yes, kill it before asking questions.”

Sam rubbed between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, clenching his eyes shut tightly for a few seconds. Dean had evoked a similar reaction from Sam before, and usually from a very similar argument, though about a much lesser creature like a newborn vamp or a peculiarly empathetic werewolf. Sam was always so insistent on trying to save whoever he could, were it human or otherwise, whereas Dean took to a much stricter way of doing things—the way John had taught him—to kill anything that wasn’t human.

This was perhaps the first time in a long time that Sam actually found himself outnumbered.

“Just promise me this, guys. Please, ask questions first and shoot later,” Sam insisted, “just the one time that I ask.”

“Why should we?” Dean asked.

“Because if you hadn’t done it, you would have killed him,” Sam gestured to Castiel, “and he would have killed you,” he gestured back to Dean.

They looked at one another: the depths of mist green locking with the vast angelic blue. They had, after all, thought to kill one another at some point. Perhaps they had even considered it more than once, with every intention to one day follow through. Dean would never see a reason to lie that he had once so easily considered killing Castiel for no other reason than he wasn’t the same angel he so closely resembled. And Castiel had thought to kill him simply because his angelic instinct suggested it wouldn’t be wise not to.

One had near given into emotion, and the other to indifference.

Had they not stopped to ask questions, either one or both of them would be dead.

“Promise,” Castiel said finally.

Dean blinked in surprise. Castiel had been so severe from the very beginning about the dangers of Nephilim, and yet he so swiftly softened to the idea of letting one live. The very prospect of killing Dean had struck something so human and emotive within him that his once unwavering stance collapsed into a state of disrepair. Dean could see complete surrender in his eyes and in the guilt-ridden dip in his posture. He knew that Castiel wouldn’t dare strike a blow to Jack without Sam’s permission.

“Dean?” Sam pushed.

Dean hesitated. It seemed a foolish idea to make promises he likely couldn’t—and wouldn’t—keep. It seemed equally perilous to deceive everything he had stood for, for no reason other than to be with an angel he barely knew.

The liquor churned sickeningly in his stomach and the once fading burn in his throat rekindled, forcing him to cough into his fist once more. He could suddenly, and so easily, find it within himself to finish the whole damn flask without pause—with or without Sam bearing witness. He slipped his hands subtly into his pockets and ran his thumb along the ridged cap of the flask, tempting it to open. It helped soothe his nerves just to know it was there. At least enough to keep him from giving in to his urges. He finally withdrew his empty hands.

“Fine. Promise,” he said finally.

Sam nodded, at least somewhat appeased with their word, yet something still lingered distrustfully in his tired gaze. He knew Dean well enough to know that promises were better said than done, and he barely knew Castiel at all, let alone enough to make a judgement he could depend on. And yet it wasn’t Castiel he looked at with premeditated disappointment; it was Dean.

Dean did his best to ignore Sam’s stare and gestured meekly to the books and papers scattered across the table.

“As you were,” he said and tentatively stepped back.

For once, Castiel refused to look at him, instead glaring at the wall as if wishing to beat through it with his own two fists.

And Dean thought he could do it, and that he may very well try.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time, Dean delayed seeing Castiel. Every night prior he had waited for little more than fifteen minutes after Sam had gone to bed to walk silently a few doors down to Castiel’s room. And this time, despite making less effort to soften his tread, Castiel didn’t instantly open the door. Dean knocked four times, each land of his fist a little louder than the last before Castiel inched the door open. His room was fully lit for once, and one eye peered out at Dean, creased at the corner in concern.

“Cas?” Dean ventured warily.

Castiel had never behaved in such a way, keeping the door ajar so slightly that Dean truly felt unwelcome.

Unwanted.

Distrusted.

“Castiel,” the angel corrected gently.

“Right. Castiel.”

It was the first time in a long time that Castiel had been offended by the word.

Castiel opened the door wider and disappeared from the opening, slipping back into the depths of his harshly lit bedroom. Dean stepped cautiously inside and eased the door shut behind him, taking care to keep the handle turned until it was securely set in its frame. Castiel had already resumed his position at the end of his bed with his legs crossed and hands left sitting idly in his lap. He gazed tensely at the muted television, watching a poor excuse for a horror flick, the red gore resembling raspberry jello rather than blood or tattered pieces of organs and flesh. Dean knew Castiel wasn’t interested in it in the slightest. Perhaps he hadn’t even noticed what was on the screen, merely looking without truly seeing. Dean took the remote from the bedside table and switched the television off—something they hadn’t actually done before when they were alone together.

“You haven’t looked at me all night,” Dean said and tossed the remote down onto the couch; he had no intention of sitting there tonight.

“You haven’t looked at me either,” Castiel remarked.

“Uh… yeah, I have. How else would I know you weren’t looking?” Dean argued reasonably.

“You were looking at him. Or at least trying to.”

“Him? Who?”

“Cas,” Castiel near spat, and then looked immensely guilty for it. “Cas,” he repeated, more gently this time, all the venom removed from his voice.

“I don’t understand.”

Dean’s heart hammered wildly in his chest. He understood all too well.

“Sam tried to warn me,” Castiel said, “he said you were using me as a poor substitute for _him_.”

“So that’s what he told you…” Dean murmured quietly. He fiddled nervously with a loose thread from the seam of his jeans, pinching and twisting the fabric between his calloused thumb and forefinger. It was his only stand in for the alcohol he didn’t have on hand to drink, and for the denial he couldn’t force feed himself with Castiel sitting right there watching him.

“I’ve been trying to understand, Dean. But this—,” he gestured wildly to the blank television, “they’re only stories. I’m trying to learn lessons from fiction, and it’s confounding me. It’s like trying to replicate an already poor imitation of humankind… and I don’t even know what the point is anymore. I’m not sure I ever knew.”

Dean instinctively stepped forward and knelt down in front of Castiel, very barely touching his knees with trembling hands. Cas had had years to learn, watching and replicating what he saw in the real world. Castiel was confined to the same four walls, learning what he could in a matter of months from an outdated television set and Dean’s outdated classic films. Cas observed and interacted with real humans expressing real emotions to real happenings, whilst Castiel had nothing more than the tales told with easily resolved complications and convenient displays of emotion needed only to drive the plot forward.

 “Sometimes I’m not sure if I want the things I want because _I_ want them or because _they_ do,” Castiel explained, suddenly glaring at the TV with such an intense hatred.

“Hey, look at me,” Dean insisted.

Castiel didn’t, his eyes still locked beyond Dean’s shoulder, and there came the abrupt sound of glass and plastic cracking, the spark of wires flaring for a brief moment before settling. Dean startled and turned around, shielding his face from the fine spray of glass that shot from the broken set. Castiel swept Dean’s other hand from his knee. Dean peered back at him warily, genuinely afraid of what else he could break.

“Sorry,” Castiel mumbled, dipping his head in shame.

“It’s okay,” Dean said.

“It’s not.”

“It was just a shitty TV. It doesn’t matter,” Dean insisted. “Just keep talking.”

“And say what?”

“I dunno… just… start with what you think you want?”

“You, I suppose,” Castiel admitted, “but these feelings you arouse are beyond what I can understand. There are enough words for it: lust, longing, affection, attraction, endearment… but before they were only ever words and now it’s almost impossible to make sense of what it is to feel them.”

Dean tried to ignore the flicker of gratification he felt at hearing that Castiel’s affections were, and perhaps for a long time had been, more than Dean was wishing he’d feel.

“It can be a bit much, can’t it? Going from nothing to everything all at once?” Dean asked.

“That’s the thing, it _isn’t_ everything all at once. That much I know for sure,” Castiel said, “and that’s what confounds me. That there is more.”

Dean’s heart sank a little. He swore he could feel it breaching his stomach, the beat churning his insides and threatening to make him ill.

Castiel truly felt. But he didn’t want to. Humanity had come as a curse to him, rather than a blessing—rather than a saviour from the apathetic and corrupt. Dean’s affections were essentially poisoning him.

Loving Dean was making Castiel resentful.

Loving Dean had clipped Cas’ wings, and now it was tearing Castiel’s apart at the roots.

“Dean…” Castiel stood and nervously patted the bed, smoothing out the creases in the covers. “Can I show you something?”

Dean nodded.

Castiel wordlessly went to the bedside table and opened the bottom drawer. He pulled out Cas’ old Bible and held it gingerly in both hands, caressing the spine with his thumb. Castiel watched anxiously for Dean’s reaction, hoping to see no hint of recognition or knowing in his eyes.

But Dean couldn’t mask his dread.

“You knew,” Castiel said. There was no question.

“I knew,” Dean confirmed in admittance. “It felt wrong not to leave it there, you know? I wanted to keep it safe where he wanted it.”

“I understand.”

Castiel carefully opened the Bible, knowing exactly at which page to stop, and he slipped the photograph free. He gazed upon it, his expression glazed with a swaying mixture of trepidation and empathy.

“I look just like him,” Castiel said.

“Or he looks just like you,” Dean amended, trying without hope to reassure Castiel.

Deep down, Dean had always known that Cas and Castiel were not one and the same. But he had tried to convince himself otherwise all the same. He had tried so hard to erase everything Castiel was, cutting and moulding him into a better fit.

And it wasn’t fair. It had _never_ been fair.

“What was he saying to you? In the photo, what was he whispering in your ear?” Castiel asked.

“I wish I knew,” Dean said dejectedly. “I keep trying to remember. Sometimes I think it’s come back to me, but then I’m never sure. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thinking the wrong words.”

“That’s better than no words at all?”

“Not really.”

“Whatever he said, it made you happy.”

“The things he said usually did.”

“You’ve never really spoken about him before,” Castiel’s brow furrowed. He held the photo out to Dean who hesitated to take it.

“I don’t like thinking about him,” Dean admitted.

“But do you? ... Think about him?”

Dean dipped his head and wrung his hands together in front of him, grinding the pad of his thumb into the palm of his other hand, near carving his skin with his thumbnail. It was yet another substitute behaviour he was trying in place of drinking. It wasn’t working. His mouth still fell dry and his hands developed the shakes. He smacked his lips slightly, wishing desperately he hadn’t left his flask in the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of his door.

“Every day,” Dean divulged finally.

When Dean still refused to take the photograph, Castiel slipped it back into its rightful place in the Bible and put the book back in its drawer. Not once did he argue keeping it there. Perhaps he knew it was pointless to oppose. Or maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want to. When Castiel turned to face Dean again, all the rage and confusion had wiped completely and effortlessly from his expression. Instead, he gazed upon the hunter in the most sombre way—accepting Dean was never going to let Cas go.

“I do like you, Castiel,” Dean said gently.

“I know,” Castiel granted.

He stepped forward and took Dean’s still tightly clenched hands into his, forcing them apart. Dean’s palm was red, a part of his skin grazed from his nail. Castiel ran his smooth thumb over it, gracing Dean’s skin with affection. When Dean looked down at their entwining hands, he realised all signs of redness and stress were gone; healed by Castiel’s grace.

“Thank you,” Dean smiled sadly, “and I’m sorry.”

Castiel shook his head kindly and shushed Dean with a tender kiss. Dean’s once tense jaw instantly relaxed and he kissed back with genuine warmth and appreciation. Dean laced his arms around the angel and encompassed him so completely, holding his warmth close in hopes to reignite his own diminishing sense of life.

Dean was still using him, but, this time, Castiel let him.

“Can I sit with you this time?” Dean asked weakly. He nestled his face into the crook of Castiel’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent of heather and subtle honey. One hand slipped up his back and into the hair at the back of his head, fingers tangling into the dark locks.

“Yes.”

They parted only to climb into bed, silently lifting the covers on either side of the mattress and settling beneath them together. Castiel took Dean into his arms this time, hugging the hunter close to his side and allowing Dean to rest his head on his chest. The angel raised one hand and forced the lights to blink out, casting them into the dark, without so much as the glow of the television there to illuminate them.

It was the most _together_ they had ever been.

“Dean?”

“Yes, Castiel.”

“I want to stay here… after we save Mary, I want to come back with you,” Castiel whispered, “I can’t stay there in... the ruins—,”

“Okay,” Dean interjected quietly. He understood. He saw the way Castiel gazed wondrously the world. The way he loved it—so pure and curious and at peace with creation. It was the same way Cas had looked at it. And Dean never would have dared to deny him a place there.

“Okay?”

“Okay. I promise, Castiel, you’ll come home too.”

Castiel’s arms tightened around Dean, pulling him impossibly closer. Warmth permeated Dean; something angelic and pure tingling down his spine, and it forced all the pain from him. For the first time in a long time, Dean wasn’t burdened by loss or fear. For just a few, beautiful moments, Dean felt no suffering, and he knew Castiel didn’t feel any either.

“Home,” Castiel tested the word, wondering how it would taste in his mouth. And when he kissed Dean, the hunter knew it must have tasted sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my. I am so very sorry for the massive delay between chapters. And I wish I could promise that there won't be another wait like that again. Unfortunately, I cannot promise such a thing... (or, I could, but I'd much rather make no promises instead of making and breaking them) But I will try to update more regularly to the best of my ability :)  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know your thoughts in the comments, as it always motivates me to keep writing.


	11. Chapter 11

 Dean closed the door with a quiet click. He stopped and tried, with little success, to tidy his dishevelled hair. He could feel its wild appearance without needing to see it in a mirror. Of course, he couldn’t recall shifting much throughout the night, and he thought it likely wasn’t possible with how he had been enveloped in Castiel’s arms. It must have been Castiel’s fingers running through it and his face nuzzling into the soft tresses. After all, that’s how they had been positioned when Dean woke up. He could feel Castiel’s warm breath against his scalp and the gentle prod of his nose as he nestled deeper into his hair.

And Dean had liked it.

He found he had slept better in Castiel’s arms, comforted by the protective strength and the sincere affection of it all.

Dean hadn’t wanted to leave. It would have been so easy for him to stay there with their legs tangled together under the covers, the curves of his body moulding perfectly with Castiel’s. And they could have laid there all day, the broken television quiet at the foot of the bed, with the sun rising and setting without interruption. Dean could have rested in the comfortable silence without issue, and he was sure Castiel could too.

Maybe Castiel wanted it just as much, if not more.

Castiel had hesitated to let Dean go, only holding him closer when Dean finally announced that he had to leave. His arms had reflexively tightened around him, his hand squeezing Dean’s arm where Cas’ handprint remained imprinted on his skin, and he murmured something illegible into his hair that Dean took as a quiet protest.

Dean almost immediately gave in. But, he had no choice. In falling asleep, he had put their secret at risk, and Sam was sure to be waking up at any moment. There was no hope for future nights like this if Sam knew what they were doing, no matter how innocent it was in nature.

The bunker was silent and still. The halls remained tranquil and undisturbed, left void many hours prior after its occupants went to bed—even if Castiel never actually ended up sleeping. Relieved, Dean finished patting down his hair and rubbed his tired face against his arm, forcing back a yawn. He tread clumsily back towards his room without any haste, convinced by the silence in the bunker that no danger lingered here. With his room immediately in sight, Dean slowed and went to reach for the handle but the door was already open and a hand clamped down hard on his wrist. Dean startled and reflexively pulled against the grip on his arm, but the fingers only pressed tighter into his skin.

“What are you doing, Dean?!” Sam hissed. His eyes were wild; wide and manic with untethered dread. Dean knew that Sam knew. He knew everything without having to ask. The guilt was all over Dean’s face.

“Nothing,” Dean sniffed sourly.

“I saw you. I saw you coming out of Castiel’s room,” Sam accused. He shook Dean’s wrist.

“And? What about it?”

“How long has this been going on?” Sam asked. “How long have you been doing this behind my back?”

“That depends,” Dean replied tersely. He grabbed Sam’s arm with his free hand and twisted it back, forcing his grip to loosen and he shrugged himself free.

“On what?!”

“On what you think I’ve been doing.”

Dean pushed past Sam and stepped into his room. He opened up his dresser and sifted through it for a clean shirt he could change into after a shower. Selecting one, he inspected it only to find splatters of blood or gore of some kind that hadn’t come out in the wash; it was hard to say what kind of monster it belonged to, but, whatever it was, it had ruined one of his favourite shirts.

Sam followed him further into the room and stood with his hands open at his sides in disbelief. His tall frame made the room feel smaller, and Dean was tempted to ask him to leave—not that Sam would actually do as he was told.

“Well… I don’t know,” Sam admitted, flushing a little, “I’ve got some notion.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and roughly rubbed the back of his neck.

Dean rolled his eyes. “We haven’t,” he said. He pulled out another shirt and slung it over his shoulder before moving onto the next drawer to find a new pair of jeans.

“You… You haven’t?” Sam was genuinely surprised.

“What do you think I am? Some kind of sex-manic animal?” Dean took offence at the assumption.

“Of course not… I just—,” Sam’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat and tried again, “I just didn’t know what to think, Dean. I just saw you sneaking out of Castiel’s room at five in the morning looking like you’d… you know.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Sammy. Castiel and I have been keeping it pretty PG,” Dean muttered. He went to leave for the bathroom but Sam blocked the doorway.

“Disappoint…” Sam scoffed, laughing softly without an ounce of humour. “So? What is this then?”

“None of your damn business is what it is,” Dean tried to sidestep Sam but his brooding stature couldn’t be surpassed.

Sam took Dean’s change of clothes from him and held them in a bundle in his arms, not allowing Dean to just take them and leave. His hair dipped in front of his forlorn eyes and his lips tensed into a firm, thin line. Dean could see the strands of his hair around his face quivering faintly with the rapid pace of his beating heart. Sighing, Dean crossed his arms tightly across his chest and solidified his stance, ready to push if it came to shove.

“Dean… this isn’t fair,” Sam murmured.

“This doesn’t affect you, Sam. It doesn’t matter what you think is or isn’t fair because this isn’t about you—,”

“No. It’s not fair to Castiel,” Sam interrupted, snarling.

Dean blinked. “What?”

“I tried to warn him. I tried to tell him what you were doing—that you were using him,” Sam said.

“Warn him?” Dean barked and laughed aggressively, “I think you mean scare him, Sam. Bully him. Threaten him.”

“I didn’t—,”

“Oh, yes you did,” Dean retaliated, “you’re so worried about messing with these alternate worlds. All this time you’ve been shit scared of what having Castiel here will do to us.”

“Aren’t you?!”

“Of course I am, Sam! I’m fucking terrified! But that doesn’t give you the right to intimidate him. It doesn’t give you the right to use Cas as a weapon against him.”

“But it gives you the right to use Castiel as a replacement?”

Dean paused. His chest heaved. His fists clenched. His Adam’s apple rose and fell thickly in his throat.  
“No. No, it doesn’t,” he granted finally, “but he knows that. We both know it.”

Sam shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, his stare piercing Dean in search for understanding. He so clearly sought to find the lies or the denial, but there was nothing there.

“And?”

“And it doesn’t change anything,” Dean muttered. He was finally able to push past Sam, no longer caring whether he got away with or without his clothes.  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam asked and followed.

“It means Castiel is coming home with us.”

“What?”

“We go to apocalypse-land, we save Mum and bring her home,” Dean said, “and we bring him home too.”

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm again and forced him to stop.

“Dean… no.”

Dean had expected a far more furious reaction than the one Sam gave him. His voice was too soft. Too sad. Too rueful. Where he could have pushed on and put a door between them, the faded anger in Sam’s words stopped Dean. Stopped him cold. Briefly, without reason, Dean almost apologised to Sam. Almost promised to rectify his mistakes.

But Castiel wasn’t a mistake.

“He isn’t Cas, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t belong here.”

Dean didn’t understand how Sam hadn’t seen it too—how he hadn’t seen the way Castiel looked upon the world as someplace glorious. The way Castiel loved Earth like a home he could only ever dream of.

“There are too many risks, Dean.”

“What risks? Cause I haven’t seen them, Sam. Where are these consequences you keep talking about?”

“I don’t know! Okay? Just because we haven’t seen any yet, it doesn’t mean they aren’t there or they aren’t coming,” Sam argued reasonably. “I just don’t want this to come back and bite us.”

“But what if it doesn’t?” Dean asked, “what if it doesn’t and we sent him back for nothing? Could you live with that?”

Sam’s eyes dipped with pity.

“Could you live with that, Sam?” Dean repeated firmly, pushing his younger brother harder.

Sam sighed heavily and ran a disgruntled hand through his long locks, peering up and down the length of the hall as if seeking an answer from either doorway. And, miraculously, there appeared to be one.

Castiel stood awkwardly inside his room with his feet very barely outside his door. He watched them curiously, but his expression turned fearful once he realised he had been spotted. He shuffled back slightly and pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets, fumbling with the material in his efforts to mask his true concern.

Too much rode on Sam’s reply. There was only so far Dean could push him before his influence was rendered entirely useless. Sam could think for himself, and he could put his foot down wherever it so pleased him.

But Sam was known only to make the smart choice instead of the heart choice when it was only his life to lose.

“I know I’m going to regret this,” he sighed finally and shook his head in defeat. “I don’t agree with this. I still think this is stupid and reckless, but if you want to take the risk then that’s on you.”

“I never asked it to be your burden,” Dean said.

“I didn’t mean for it to be yours either, Dean,” Castiel said suddenly.

The brothers paused and looked at him again. They both recognised the doubt in Castiel’s words.  
Dean was suddenly so afraid that Castiel might change his mind. He realised there was more to lose than just Cas’ memory. There stood the living, breathing angel that a part of Dean truly loved, and he was unwilling to let that go.

“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said plainly, “I want you to stay. If that’s a burden, then I put it on myself.”

Castiel clearly didn’t believe him, but nodded his head nevertheless and stepped back into his room without another word. Sam fumbled with Dean’s clothes and clumsily deposited them into Dean’s arms, finally allowing him to go.

“If you do anything to sabotage this…” Dean warned quietly.

“Okay,” Sam surrendered, though it was clear to both of them that Dean would never do anything to truly harm or threaten him. The only one to suffer would be Dean, and that was perhaps reason enough for Sam to keep his promises.

Dean slipped past Sam and went into the bathroom. In the privacy of those four walls, Dean only then began to realise the weight of his decisions. He began to see the future that loomed ahead of them, and the dangers that threatened to capsize their lives.

And he understood then that he had promises of his own to keep… and just how likely it was that something would make him break them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! So sorry about the long wait, especially for such a short chapter. I am currently having an extensive and troublesome writer's block. Hopefully, chapter 12 will come soon with a lot more to offer!


	12. Chapter 12

“This seems like an awful lot of food,” Castiel said perplexedly. He pushed the trolley slowly in front of him with Dean walking alongside it, occasionally having to direct it with his hand to keep it from crashing. Castiel stared ahead at the signs overhanging aisle after aisle after aisle, his expression contorted semi-permanently into confusion and wonderment.

“What did you think a supermarket would be?” Dean asked, smiling in amusement.

“Before the apocalypse, I hadn’t been on Earth since the Middle Ages when food was hard to preserve and transport, and frequently difficult to buy,” Castiel explained, “how was I to know a supermarket would be this extensive?”

Dean considered it for a moment. “Okay, fair enough. So you really never saw the modern world?”

“Only when it had been turned to dust,” Castiel said darkly. He picked up a jar of pickles from the shelf and eyed it warily before putting it back slowly. “How often do you and Sam shop at supermarkets?”

“Rarely,” Dean admitted, “we usually just eat out or pick up what we can from gas stations. We’re on the move more than we are at home.”

“Is that better?” Castiel asked curiously.

“What?”

“To live like that?” He clarified.

Dean thought about it for a moment, distracting himself by browsing the shelves. _Was_ it better? It had always been him and Sam on the road for hours or days at a time, sipping from takeaway cups or drinking beer on the hood of the Impala, eating freely at diners whenever they happened upon one, only stocking up the bunker with food they’d hope would last if they had to up and go again before eating it.

It was all Dean really knew, but that hadn’t kept him from dreaming. He had sometimes imagined a life with homemade meals, with meat he’d just taken off the grill and vegetables that hadn’t come out of a can. He imagined a proper Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner with the table laid with glorious, rich splendour, a turkey perfectly cooked for him to carve and his family to feast upon. He had many times fancied the idea that maybe, just maybe, there would come a time to live the way normal people did.

And he had once. Back in the days of Lisa and Ben. But it seemed like nothing more than a distant memory now. A hazy once-been he knew had its fond moments, but ultimately never fully satisfied. It was hard to sit at a dinner table with three settings, forever sensing that one was missing. Each meal together reminded him that his family wasn’t whole. It was incomplete and inescapable.

Dean realised that his fulfilled dreams came at a cost. And they only tasted bittersweet at the best of times. Sometimes the aftertaste was outright hostile.

So… _Was_ this better?

“It’s… a way to live,” Dean said finally, “that’s all you can ask for in this life.”

Castiel nodded solemnly and continued to push the cart into the next aisle. He wrinkled his nose at the contents of tins and jars that he didn’t know or understand and likely distrusted the names of. Dean grabbed what they needed, sighing and rolling his eyes at some of Sam’s specific health-conscious requests. Castiel paused suddenly, picked up a jar and turned it around in his hands. Dean continued down the aisle, leaving him behind for just a moment, before looking back only to see Castiel opening the jar, putting his hand in, and eating something.

“Shit,” Dean muttered under his breath and swiftly walked back, looking behind him to make sure no employees were watching. He quickly took the jar and lid from Castiel and nudged his arm. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t just go around opening everything.”

Castiel’s face reddened and he puckered his lips. He shook his head, distraught by the apparently abhorrent taste, and turned his wide eyes to Dean.

“Whoot ind oof abommnation ish hat?” he forced out through his full mouth.

“What?” Dean snickered. He shut the jar and placed it in the trolley, knowing they had to buy the damn thing now.

Castiel suddenly grabbed Dean’s arm in alarm. His cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunks', making his lips tighten and eyes strain. Dean couldn’t help himself. His quiet snickering evolved into a proper fit of giggles and then unrestrained, boisterous laughter.

What was he supposed to do?

Dean placed his palms on Castiel’s cheeks and pushed gently, threatening to press them together and make an even bigger mess of the situation. Aside from it being a minutely cruel idea, the fact that his own face sat directly in the firing line was all that halted him.

Nevertheless, the threat alone was enough. Castiel reached up and grasped Dean’s hands in a moment of panic, pulling them down away from his face. Dean’s already gleeful laughter filled the aisle, and probably the next two aisles on either side of them as well. Tears lined his devilishly bright eyes. He was overcome and lost for air as his stomach began to ache, the muscles contracting and ready to burst. Dean collapsed a little forward, resting his forehead against Castiel’s shoulder and burying his mouth into the warm material of his coat. The sound of his delight muffled, saving himself the embarrassment of any curious eyes passing by.

“That wasn’t funny!” Castiel accused suddenly.

Dean looked up at him and forced back the last of his laughter. It was difficult. Particularly since Castiel was watching him with the most shell-shocked of expressions, the red in his cheeks still prominent whilst the rest of his face ran pale. The distrust in his eyes was littered with a mass curiosity and confusion but in the most enthralling of ways.

Dean fell into them with ease—lost for a moment with someone he thought he could adore; someone that made him genuinely happy.

“I’m sorry,” Dean chuckled. He meant it, too, deep down.

It was hard to bury the hilarity of what he had just witnessed, but he ultimately felt sympathy for the angel. Whatever ‘horrendous’ thing he had just eaten likely tasted far worse against his tongue. Dean couldn’t imagine how molecules tasted, but Cas had complained about it often enough to give him the sense that they weren’t at all appetising.

Castiel took a sharp breath and coughed into his sleeve. He followed that with a swift, disgruntled shake of his head. He squeezed Dean’s hand, and Dean squeezed his hand in return, somewhat consolingly. Had he had the time, he would have stopped him and warned him of the numerous possible consequences. It seemed now that a warning was no longer necessary. The time had long since passed.

“You okay?” Dean asked. He brushed a remaining tear from the corner of his own eye.

“I think so?” Castiel didn’t seem so sure.

Dean sidled in a little closer and peered diligently at Castiel’s shaken features. His gaze travelled from Castiel’s eyes, paused momentarily at his lips, and then continued down to their clasped hands.

“I think you’re fine,” Dean assessed, “no lasting damage.”

“You sure?” Castiel asked doubtfully.

Dean chuckled and failed to mask his smile. “You’ll live. I’m sure of it.”

Castiel nodded and swallowed hard, almost recoiling at whatever taste likely still lingered in his mouth. Nevertheless, he decided not to question or argue it, accepting Dean’s appraisal as gospel. He clearly trusted Dean—likely with everything he had.

Dean doubted he would ever understand how or why. He didn’t even trust himself.

“I’ll grab you something to drink,” Dean said, “I don’t know if it’ll help you much… you know, angelic super taste-buds and all that. But it’s the best I’ve got to offer.”

“That would be nice, I think,” Castiel replied gratefully. His hand slipped away from Dean’s.

Dean shivered.

His hand suddenly felt so empty and cold, and he almost wished Castiel would immediately take it back. He was too ashamed to ask, out of fear the request would sound needy and overly-attached. Instead, he turned his back to disguise the uneasy look in his eye and the almost imperceptible quiver to his lip. Dean could feel Castiel’s eyes boring into his back as he walked down the aisle and then around the corner out of sight.

By the time he returned—after having spent a ridiculous amount of time debating over which drink to get, despite knowing they would all likely taste as ghastly as each other—Castiel wasn’t alone.

A young woman stood with him, leaning more to one side with her hand rested on her hip, the hem of her tank top riding up over her fingers to show just the right amount of skin. As Dean watched, she ran her other hand through her strawberry-blonde locks, tussling it into a naturally attractive mess. She smiled brightly, eyeing an awkward Castiel with unmistakable interest.

Not that Dean could blame her.

Castiel was so often rigid and calculating, but only in the most captivating and easy of ways. On anyone else, those features would come off as cold and unsociable, but on Castiel, they fit the way only perfection would. Because it wasn’t something he wore. It wasn’t something Castiel chose in place of an inviting smile and an open eye. He didn’t fake it. Castiel was only ever his own pure self… but Dean had thought he was the only one to see it.

It was naïve, he realised, to think that nobody had ever eyed Cas like a treat to consume. They inevitably had; different people on different days in different places, but the same intrigue. And Castiel carried himself so similarly. Of course he gained the same kind of attention.

In a way, Dean almost envied him. Sometimes he had to try so much harder to get the same level of interest.

Right now, however, his envy was redirected. He felt a sudden and intense pang of jealousy, wishing like crazy he had never left Castiel alone. And Dean recognised that Castiel wished he had never left either.

Castiel’s eyes flitted down the aisle and locked with Dean’s, the depths of blue desperate for a way out of a conversation he didn’t know how to partake in and had no interest to continue. Castiel glanced back and forth between them, much to the woman’s ignorance as she never paused for breath. But, Dean saw and he understood. Squaring his shoulders, Dean walked up to them with a definite determination in his step. Only when he was tucked right into Castiel’s side did she stop and contemplate the situation, blinking with confusion and what appeared to be frustration at the rude interruption.

“Sorry to interject,” Dean said smoothly, offering a kind smile. He looked to Castiel, delicately licking his own lips in suggestion before leaning in and kissing him. Castiel was frozen only for a moment, standing motionless with stern lips. But, within seconds, he was kissing Dean back.

Dean had only intended for it to be brief and warm; enough to make his point clear and to shatter her interest. But it seemed Castiel hadn’t made the connection and assumed that the kiss had come out of nowhere. He turned into Dean and held his waist tightly, deepening the kiss without pause and robbing the control right out from under the hunter.

Dean was immediately breathless.

The woman uncomfortably cleared her throat but didn’t wait for them to part before she strode away without another word. Dean could just make out the sound of her flats on the vinyl floor as she left.

Castiel’s hands fisted the material of Dean’s shirt and tugged the hunter in closer—as if _closer_ was even an option at this point. A soft moan swept through Dean and muffled in Castiel’s mouth. The barely legible sound was still enough to make Dean blush.

The pink in his cheeks flushed bright red when they finally parted. Castiel smiled easily; pleased and entirely unperturbed by the quick onset of passion. He took pleasure in taking the intimate moments wherever he could get them. He was fascinated to explore Dean and all new sensations whenever he could.

Meanwhile, Dean was an absolute mess.

Dean felt uncomfortable and tight in the most inappropriate of places, which normally wouldn’t be such an issue if it weren’t for the public setting. He licked his slightly swollen lips, tasted Castiel’s tongue, and paused. He tasted again. Then once more.

“What the fuck did you eat?” Dean laughed breathily. He looked in the cart for the jar Castiel had opened before and investigated the label and contents. He laughed again, but this time with the faintest hint of disgust.

“What?” Castiel asked, confused.

“Sauerkraut,” Dean explained and showed him the jar. “That’s all I can taste on your mouth.”

Cas covered his mouth with his hand, at a loss as to how dire the situation was. “I’m sorry?” Castiel offered uncertainly, clearly hoping it was the right response to give.

Dean grinned and set the jar back in the trolley before taking the lapels of Castiel’s coat, pulling him in, and just very barely touching his lips with his own.

“Oh, what the hell,” Dean practically purred before kissing him again.

The taste lingered, but neither of them cared enough to stop.

Somehow, Castiel made even the bitter taste sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this lighter chapter. Just wanted to explore some more moments between Castiel and Dean. Let me know in the comments if you enjoy chapters like this :)


	13. Chapter 13

Dean hadn’t had a drink in two weeks. He could barely remember going a day without even just a swig of something, whether it be whiskey or beer or something he couldn’t name from a suspicious, unlabelled bottle. He’d long since grown accustomed to the withdrawals that followed total sobriety, and he was all the more accustomed to dealing with them the only way he knew how: by drinking.

Dean realised just how closely he had followed in his father’s footsteps. He had aspired to be just like him, after all. To stand just as tall as he did. To be just as strong and fierce and brave. He hadn’t exactly intended to mirror him so entirely, though. At first, he had taken to drink with some caution, weighing his intoxication before it could ever get out of hand. Dean saw the way Sam often flinched at the sound of John’s drunken slurs and recoiled as his father swayed unsteadily on his feet. Dean recognised the fear and distrust that paled into a tired acceptance as he grew older. And he never wanted Sam to look at him that way. Dean never wanted Sam to withdraw from him like he were some frightful beast.

For a long time, Dean had kept his drinking under control. He had been proud of himself while it lasted. He had distanced himself from his father in the way that mattered most—he was a good role model to Sam, and a reliable caretaker even when he was probably old enough to take care of himself. Which was usually more than what could be said of John.

If John wasn’t working on a case, he was usually out drinking to all hours, stumbling back to their hotel and collapsing fully dressed onto his bed. Dean was always awake when this happened. He knew the dangerous life his father lived and the creatures he hunted. He was always horribly aware of the chances of John one day never coming home. It was impossible for Dean to sleep until he knew his father had returned safe—as safe as he could be in his drunk and disorderly state.

Dean had never asked, but he suspected Sam was awake too. Even when Sam was too young to know about hunting, he was smart enough to suspect something was amiss—that something poisonous lingered in the air. Dean just somehow knew that Sam waited for John with just as much disdain, breath bated and chest tight until they heard that familiar heavy tread outside their door and the fumble of the key in the lock.

Once he heard John’s raucous snores fill the quiet room, Dean often slipped out of bed and tucked him in, taking care to remove his shoes and socks and to turn him onto his side lest he choke on his own vomit. Dean always took care of John.

And he always took care of Sammy.

Dean always tucked Sam in next, gently drawing his blanket up protectively over his shoulder and brushing his growing hair out of his eyes. Sam’s breathing sometimes seemed purposely steady—as though he was feigning sleep. Despite thinking he was awake, Dean never spoke to him, instead going back to his own bed and finding the will to sleep.

It was an unfortunate and familiar routine that Dean never wished to replicate. It wasn’t something he wished to put Sam through. It wasn’t something he wanted his own kids to endure were he ever to have any—a prospect that became more and more distant every year.

But he also didn’t want to be afraid of the drink.

Dean refused to bow to something seemingly so innocent, yet so freaking dangerous. For years, the scent of heavy liquor made his stomach churn and his head reel. It was the natural instinct that found him whenever he passed by an open bar or a drunk on the street. Sometimes, even when Sam claimed to be a man rather than a boy, he would take Dean’s hand when hearing an approaching crowd of rowdy, intoxicated men. And Dean never argued it. He would give Sam’s hand a reassuring squeeze and hold on until the danger had passed and Sam once again felt safe.

In many ways, Dean resented John for striking that fear into them in the first place.

A father was supposed to make his children feel safe in such an unsafe world, but John had done the opposite. He had made the boys cautious of people and terrified of monsters. They didn’t have a friend in the world except for Bobby—it was a gift whenever they got the chance to spend a week or two at a time at the old salvage yard. Bobby also had a taste for the drink, but he made efforts to hide it from the boys until they were old enough to understand. And he never drank to an excess where he couldn’t walk or talk, sit or stand.

Perhaps that was enough to calm Dean’s fear. It was certainly enough to keep him reasonable for a number of years. And that was all he could have asked for in this life—a father figure who didn’t have to be perfect, just perfect enough.

Dean tried not to hold it against his father; he really didn’t. He knew better now than he did back then, and he understood in ways he never had before. He knew now how desperate life could make you. How hard it could push and pull until you no longer knew where you stood or if the floor beneath your feet could even hold your weight. Dean knew just how good that drink could be on your tongue—the smooth medicine down your throat that made everything bearable for a little while. It didn’t matter much who the alcohol turned you into, as long as it was someone aside from yourself. It was easier to fall into the temptation of intoxication than to face the pain of complete consciousness.

Dean realised how much easier it was to look at the world when he saw it as a blur.

He realised that John had just been trying his best. Just as he was trying his best too.

Dean was sometimes the person that came home after all hours, falling over his own feet as he collapsed fully dressed atop his bed. And when he was this person—this person he had never wanted to be—he woke up to find the blanket tucked over his shoulder, and his socks tucked neatly in his shoes at the foot of his bed. He would watch Sam as he got up in the morning and sleepily poured them both a cup of coffee, his eyes heavy-lidded and ringed with dark circles like he hadn’t slept all night.

Dean was sometimes the person that had to face the reality that he had, in many ways, become just like his father. And, similarly, Sam had become him—the old him. Sam had become the caregiver watching over the adult. Sam had taken the role that Dean claimed for himself many years prior.

And hell if Dean didn’t feel guilty for it.

But he found it impossible to stop. He could only deny those withdrawals and that unrelenting pain for so long before he gave into it and snuck a sip or two or more… sometimes a _lot_ more. Dean had become a captive of his vices, and Sam could only ever watch and agonize over what his big brother was doing to himself.

Sam was smart and reasonable, and certainly old enough to make his own choices. But Dean worried that Sam would eventually follow in his footsteps, as he had John’s, and one day end up as dependent as him. Dean didn’t want to be responsible for Sam’s drinking were he ever to consume more than was psychologically sound. He didn’t want the two of them to follow the same deadly trail that lead John to years of misery until his death.

Dean believed he was already on this path… so far down, in fact, he couldn’t possibly find the way he had come. But Sam wasn’t there yet. There was hope for him. There was a chance he could stop himself before he became lost and blind to the good life he had yet to live.

When Cas had died, all Dean wanted to do was to drink.

It was probably the most desperate he had ever felt. His every thought had been consumed by Cas, the memory of his death, and the undeniable urge he felt to drown it in alcohol.

Eventually, he had started to give into this. He knew how weak he was in the face of loss, and Sam knew it too. And when Castiel came along, it likely didn’t take him long to see it for himself—even if he didn’t, and couldn’t, understand.

But, Dean hadn’t had a drink in two weeks.

His body was shocked by the sudden absence of alcohol. The physical symptoms of which warned of the extent of his dependency. Even still, Dean had endured and persisted with his newfound sobriety. After the first few days, when the illness began to ease, Dean found himself itching for something to do. He’d never realised just how little time he spent bored due to the constant flow of beers. Drinking had kept his mind, hands, and mouth occupied day after day. Without it, Dean wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. He quickly grew restless and agitated as he itched for a beer. Even just a swig or a sip. Maybe even just a quick sniff of an open bottle would be enough to appease him for a while.

But, still, Dean persisted.

It hadn’t escaped Sam’s notice. Twice he had returned from the shops without any liquor of any kind. When Dean had gone the first two nights without giving in to the stock stashed away in the kitchen, Sam had kindly gone and emptied the bottles down the drain. He was doing what he could to offer his support without overwhelming Dean, and without expressing the sentiment out loud. It had been hard to ignore the initial infuriation—not just at Sam’s initiative to do such a thing, but at _everything_ Sam did.

Sam wasn’t the only victim of Dean’s sober frustration, however. Castiel, too, occasionally fell into the firing line as Dean tried to find his own two feet amongst the blurred mess his alcoholism had left behind. Dean did whatever he could to bite his tongue, and to apologize whenever the harsh words happened to slip through. And, somehow, both Sam and Castiel were patient and understanding.

Dean was surprised by Castiel’s ability to hold his composure, no matter what insincere words Dean threw at him.

When Dean resumed his nightly visits to Castiel’s room at night, Castiel greeted him with a soft smile and a kiss. Not once did the greeting feel tainted by Dean’s somewhat erratic and irritating behaviour. Not once did Castiel opt to distance himself, putting a defined space between them. If anything, he tried to cognize what it would be to stand in Dean’s shoes, and he likely sought an explanation from Sam to better be able to do that.

His hand graced Dean’s skin with a newfound tenderness. His kisses were blissful notes that Dean cherished. Dean liked this softness to Castiel—this affection he saved only for Dean. He would be lying if he said that he didn’t spend all day waiting for that first kiss of their evening. Even as his mood soured and his grasp of sober control fluctuated, that eagerness never left him. Even as he first came down with withdrawal symptoms, he wanted that kiss more than he wanted a drink.

Dean felt that had played a big part in getting him to two weeks sober.

It seemed such a small feat; a meagre speck of time in contrast to the years spent with the scent of alcohol on his breath. But it meant a lot to him. And staying dry for many more weeks or months or years to come didn’t seem like such a ridiculous notion anymore. It felt possible— _more_ than possible. And having the support of his brother, watching that hopefulness ignite in his eyes, guided him forward. And having that kiss from Castiel—the stable touch of his hand and the protective brace of his arms and the warmth of his being—gave him the faith that he had once lost long ago.

Even still, there was something that pushed him back a few paces. Something that made his mouth bone dry and hands shake. There was only so far he could go before the weight of the world sent his willpower sinking down into the earth along with the soles of his feet. Dean liked to pride himself on his strength, but, in truth, it wavered with his faith. And much of that faith had been with Cas—that he would always be there as an ally and a friend, as the light to fill the dark, as someone to trust and to love. When Cas had died, much of that faith had died with him; some days it felt as if all of it had gone. On those days especially, Dean found comfort in alcohol. Or at the very least there was a false sense of it—enough to appease his tortured mind for a time. Any reminder of Cas’ absence struck in Dean something only a drink seemed capable of silencing.

Sam must have suspected as much. He had always been good at reading his complicated older brother, expecting things of him and rarely surprising himself by being wrong. He knew Dean too well. He had rightfully come to the conclusion that any mention of Cas would now burden Dean greater than it had before.

But Castiel didn’t know Dean as thoroughly.

“I think I found something that belonged to Cas,” Castiel said that evening as he sat by Dean’s side on the bed.

“Oh?” Dean cleared his throat somewhat uncomfortably.

It was always difficult to talk about Cas. Before, with heavy liquor lining his stomach and blurring his senses, it was hard but somewhat manageable. Even if he awoke hungover and mournful for some time, he was able to get past it, his mind hazy and unable to truly retain the words that had hurt him. Now, Dean didn’t want to hear the words that a completely sober mind couldn’t expel.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I was flipping through his Bible. It has been a long time since I last read the scripture.”

“I don’t mind,” Dean allowed, “I don’t think he would mind either.” Dean cleared his throat again and sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin rested in the palm of his hand.

“I found an underlined passage. Corinthians 13: 1-7. And I just thought…” Castiel hesitated. Dean’s body visibly tensed. “I thought you should read it,” he finished finally.

“I don’t think I should…” Dean murmured, suddenly uneasy.

“I think he would want you to. If he knew.”

“Knew what? That he’d be dead? That I would be missing him like crazy?”

“Yes,” Castiel said honestly. His tone softened. “If he had known he wouldn’t get the chance to say goodbye.”

Castiel held Cas’ Bible out to him, waiting patiently, knowing that Dean would eventually take it. Because how could he not? It was the one thing Cas had left behind. It was the place where Cas had kept a happy memory—maybe one of the happiest. It was where Cas had placed that photograph, protecting it and the moment it captured safe from ever perishing.

Dean slowly turned and took the book from him, tracing its spine carefully before allowing Castiel to open it to the correct page.

Cas had underlined it with red pen. Purposely neat and defined. Dean recognised his hand somehow, compared to what would have been his own messy scrawl; circling the paragraphs without any poise. It was Cas’ touch, delicate and ever endeared.

_If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing._

_4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres._

Dean carefully traced the underlined passages with his finger, each red line after the other until the end. Then, with a trembling hand, he passed the book back to Castiel and quietly instructed him to put it back where he had found it.

“Are you sure?” Castiel asked.

“Put it back,” Dean said again, this time with more severity.

Without argument, Castiel did as he was told, slipping the Bible back into its drawer and sealing it away. Dean knew without having to ask that Castiel would never again dare to retrieve it. Dean had granted him permission to peruse it as he so pleased and had even acknowledged what would have likely been Cas’ permission as well, but Castiel decided against it. He could see it in the angel’s endless blue eyes. There was a new depth to them that hadn’t lingered there before. Again, that quiet and sad recognition that Dean loved someone that was long lost. That Dean loved someone else.

They both knew and acknowledged this fact without words, yet Castiel evidently felt either jealousy or hopelessness or both, and Dean felt a heavy sense of guilt. Guilt for loving Cas, but also growing to love Castiel too. He couldn’t help but think he was betraying them both, despite never being committed to either. He and Cas had never had the chance, but to take the chance now with Castiel would feel somewhat hollow. Never mind the sincerity, and never mind the warmth. Because beneath all that, there remained Cas.

They both knew this.

“You never talk about him,” Castiel said finally, poking at the elephant in the room.

“You don’t want to hear about him,” Dean argued.

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course not. He mattered to you.”

“That’s exactly why you don’t want to hear about him. You don’t want to listen to me rambling about him when he’s gone and you’re here,”

Dean stood up. His hands fisted aggressively at his sides. Even as his tone tore harsh and true from his lips, he knew it wasn’t fair. Castiel was offering to be supportive in the face of Dean’s pain, despite knowing what pain it would inflict on him to do so. And Dean was throwing it back in his face, expressing his grief for another whilst rejecting his consolation. Dean knew he was making matters worse, and yet he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re right,” Castiel admitted quietly. “I don’t want to hear about him. But you need to talk about him. You can’t keep burying him down, trying to force yourself to forget him when you and I both know you can’t.”

“Don’t try to tell me what I can and can’t do,” Dean spat, quite like a petulant child.

“You carry the ghost of him everywhere you go—,”

“And you really hate that, don’t you?”

“Maybe. But I think you hate it more. And I’m sure he would hate it too.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. He refused to acknowledge the truth to Castiel’s words. He felt the weight of Cas’ ghost all the time, and, until now, only the act of imbibing liquor had set that weight free—at least for a time. Dean had been doing this to ignore what couldn’t ever be dismissed. In so many ways, it often felt easier to make himself feel worse instead of better.

“You have no right to say what he would or would not think of me,” Dean ground out through bared teeth.

“But you do,” Castiel said. “Tell me, Dean… what would he think of you right now?”

What _would_ Cas think of him? Dean didn’t even want to imagine.

“I don’t need to put up with this shit,” Dean snarled and turned his back.

As he shut the door hard behind him and ventured the halls to the garage, he found himself surprised when he turned back and didn’t find Castiel behind him. Cas would have followed. And, despite initial spite and retaliation, Dean eventually felt better for it. Cas was often there when he wanted him, and always there when he needed him.

But Castiel had not followed him.

And Dean found himself wishing he had.

Dean got into the Impala and drove out onto the open road, without any specific destination in mind. He spent so much of his time driving, going from one case to another. Sometimes it was weeks before he came home to the bunker again. Yet somehow, Dean wasn’t yet sick of driving. He often hated the lack of company, driving with the seat empty beside him. But he couldn’t deny the soothing feel of wind against his skin and the ease of old rock music in his ears. Dean took whatever he could get without the shame of asking for it. He could admit what he felt and take comfort in Cas’ arms… or he could drive.

Despite the allure of the former, Dean chose the latter. The payoff wasn’t as good, but the cost wasn’t quite as dear as opening the floodgates and expressing the burdens he wished never to voice.

He would rather pay in other ways.

Dean pulled up outside the bar and tucked his keys deep into the pocket of his jeans, where he knew his inebriated mind would know to look when it came time to either risk driving home or to settle himself across the backseat. It was where Sam knew to look first whenever he had to come and collect his drunken older brother.

Dean knew he could stay sober for years and still catch himself doing these small, familiar things from his past. He knew he could somehow make it to old age, sitting in a rocking chair, grey-haired, the whole shebang, and he would still feel for the keys in his pocket; long after he had given up driving. Dean had hoped that consistent sobriety would make him the person he wanted to be, the same way consistent intoxication made him someone he didn’t want to be… but he knew now he had been wrong. He could change, and yet that part of him he detested would follow him.

It would follow him because it is him.

Staying dry didn’t remove that part of him, it just softened its sharp edges a little bit.

So what was the point?

Dean stepped into the bar and was immediately hit in the face with the strong scent of alcohol. It was everywhere: bottled, tapped, poured, and spilled into every crevice of the place. It had become part of the building itself over the years. Were it ever to close and sit abandoned for decades, the scent would diminish but never fade entirely. Much like his sharp edges.

He softly requested a strong whiskey and sat with his hands clasped tightly in front of him atop the counter. He wrung them together, distressing the skin of his palm with his thumb. The longer he sat, the stronger the scent was. It flooded his nose. And he wished he could say it made him ill the way it once had. He wished he could say it overwhelmed him and sent him reeling away. But, in truth, he found consolation in it. It was the promise of eased pain and blurred memories that time itself would flush away entirely. It was so much easier to drink and be drunk and to have that scent linger on his breath and in his clothes. It was so much easier to carry it with him almost in permanence—the way it had become one with the bar itself.

But he wondered again… what would Cas think of him?

Would he understand? Understand with the same disdain he felt when he was alive? Would he feel ashamed of Dean? Ashamed that he had taken his name and life and death in vain and used it to excuse his self-destruction?

Dean was sure he would. And Dean felt it too. He was ashamed of himself… and he was sorry. He was sorry for himself, sorry for Cas, sorry for Sam, and, most importantly, he was sorry for Castiel. He was sorry for loving him and then treating him like dirt. He was sorry for refusing to open up to him. And he was sorry for using their argument to excuse his immediate relapse into alcoholism.

The bartender set his drink down and went to turn away when Dean stopped him.

“Actually… can I just have water instead?” Dean asked and slipped his money onto the counter, paying for the drink he would never consume.

Without a word, the bartender took his money and his drink before retrieving a fresh glass.

Dean took his time to drink his solitary glass of water, all the while inhaling the scent of its clean, unthreatening, contents. And, with his belly full and clean, his mind sober, and vision clear, Dean retrieved his keys from his pocket and drove home.

When he arrived at the quiet bunker, he walked purposely to Castiel’s room and knocked twice. Like before, Castiel answered the door and allowed him inside. But, unlike before, there was no kiss in greeting. There was no embrace. There was not so much as a smile.

Instead, Castiel averted his gaze and kept his arms tightly crossed over his chest. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other before giving into his woes and pacing the length of the room. Dean watched and pondered over his words. Over the best way to apologise. The best way to admit his faults and wish that ‘sorry’ for them was enough.

Dean sat at the edge of Castiel’s bed and cleared his throat.

“Cas saved me from Hell. That’s how it started… how _we_ started,” Dean began.

Castiel paused and peered cautiously at him.

“I know you don’t want to hear about him. But you were right… I _need_ to talk about him.” Dean admitted it, sorrowful that it was true.

Castiel hesitated a moment before sitting beside him, thigh pressed to thigh, and embraced Dean with his arm.

“Tell me about him,” Castiel insisted, his heavy tone letting Dean know he was prepared to hear it.

Dean smiled at him sadly, leaning into him, knowing the weight of Cas’ ghost wasn’t on his shoulders alone to bear. Castiel would help carry it too if only Dean allowed it.

“Cas rescued me from Hell. It wasn’t the first time he saved my life, and it wasn’t the last. And I saved him too.”

Dean began and then spoke long into the night.  All the while, he felt that weight shift and balance between them. Dean didn’t have to grieve alone. Castiel was there with him, for better or for worse.

 

* * *

 

Dean hadn’t had a drink in three weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! This chapter has been a long time coming, and, again, I apologise for the wait. I think I finally have an ending in mind, so hopefully, there won't be as much time between chapters from now on (famous last words). In any case, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)


	14. Chapter 14

Dean scrubbed the hood of the Impala and felt immediate satisfaction as the dust and dirt washed away to reveal the stunning black paint job underneath. So much crap had been on his mind as of late that the car had been neglected. With each hurried drive to another portal, most located along abandoned dirt roads and muddy trails, Baby had lost more and more of her beauty. It pained Dean every day to walk past her dusty hood, clouded windows, and mud-stained hubcaps. He knew his father would have tossed a fit were he still around to see how the car had been treated. And Dean wouldn’t blame him. Instead, Dean would have hung his head low in shame and apologised in a meagre voice.

He wasn’t too pleased with himself, either. It was his car now and had been for a number of years. He loved and adored it, and expected to age alongside it. It would be a disgrace for its underside to rust and its engine to collapse. Dean could never bear to see it demolished long before its time, and it had many more years yet to live. He had rebuilt this car time and time again, dedicating much of his time to reviving her to her former glory. She deserved that much. Baby had been his and Sam’s home growing up, and Dean often still considered it as such rather than the bunker.

It meant more to him than this place ever would.

After so long, it was a relief to finally find the time to clean her up and treat her right. Dean knelt down and took extra care with the hubcaps, washing out the thick layer of dried mud. He had already refilled the bucket of soapy water twice, emptying out the murky remains down the drain. It was a time-consuming task, but one he rather enjoyed. Sure, it gave his mind room to wander, but it seemed that today it wasn’t eager to drift too far.

Dean had left Sam and Castiel alone to plot and gush over trivia that was both beyond his understanding and outside of his interests. They got along better than Dean had suspected they would, particularly with all the water under the bridge. Sam had, as promised, done nothing thus far to sabotage Dean and Castiel’s agreement. Nor had he attempted to reargue the plan. Dean liked to think that Sam had found a rational justification for allowing Castiel to remain in their world. He wanted to believe it. But he knew it wasn’t true. Sam was doing this purely for Dean’s sake.

Sometimes, Dean and Castiel would part from another lingering embrace, and Sam would quickly divert his gaze. But not before Dean saw the sad recognition in his eyes. The understanding that Dean was falling for someone that fate may not allow him to be with. Sam cared more than he would ever willingly let on. He cared too much. Dean wished to some degree that he wouldn’t, only because it evoked the sense that perhaps there was, in fact, something to fret over. That maybe this was bound to end exactly the way Sam expected it to—in death. It frightened Dean, but not enough to change his mind. The idea of losing Castiel frightened him even more.

“You’ve been gone awhile,” Castiel said suddenly.

Dean startled and fell backward, knocking the bucket over with his leg. Dirty water sloshed onto his jeans and flooded the floor.

“I did it again, didn’t I?” Castiel asked with a tired sigh. He reached down and clasped Dean’s hand, pulling him back up to his feet.

“Yes. Yes, you did,” Dean said, amused.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I need to learn to announce myself,” Castiel said, automatically checking Dean over and healing the grazes on the palms of his hands.

“You’re just really light on your feet,” Dean shrugged dismissively, “it’s not your fault. Besides, I was off in my own little world anyway.”

“And I interrupted you.” With another touch of Castiel’s hand, the legs of Dean’s jeans were suddenly clean and dry as if nothing had ever happened.

“I wouldn’t call it an interruption,” Dean reassured him. Castiel reached out to touch the car, presumably to clean it in an instant. Dean quickly took his hand and stopped him. “I’d rather do it manually if that’s okay?”

Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side in confusion, pondering his intentions. Eventually, he nodded and collected the knocked over bucket from the ground. “Mind if I help?”

Dean blinked in surprise and quickly suppressed a smile. “If you want,” he agreed and half turned away to retrieve a second sponge. He slowed and watched as Castiel refilled the bucket with water and soap. Dean could see his hesitation and uncertainty. Never had Castiel bothered to do such a mundane activity. But Dean suspected he may actually enjoy it. There was something so freeing about these brief moments in which he could slow down and be normal. Sometimes normality seemed like such a distant idea that Dean almost forgot what it felt like and what it entailed. And it sometimes felt like it was too much to ask for. Almost as if this were a hole he had dug himself into and had to claw is way out of without the world gifting him the ease of a ladder. He never took it for granted; whatever chance he had to work on the car, buy groceries, or do a load or two of laundry.

But Castiel had never had that before. His normality was nothing but war and chaos, bodies at his feet with the scorched wings of his brothers and sisters turning to dust beneath his shoes. It didn’t seem stupid to think he may like to try a hand at a human’s idea of normal. He may even be good at it were he to give it a chance.

Castiel set the full bucket down and retrieved a sponge, soaking it through and setting it down dripping on the trunk of the car. He stared at it curiously before looking to Dean for guidance. Dean chuckled light-heartedly and dunked his own sponge into the bucket before leading by example. He carefully washed the windows and gestured for the angel to copy his motions. Castiel took to it quite easily from there, losing himself in the task and rinsing his sponge out periodically in silence. Dean slowed and mostly allowed him to continue on his own. It was better to watch the easy smile that played at Castiel’s lips and the rare softness to his posture.

“You’re getting your sleeves wet,” Dean said and stepped around the car. He took the lapels of Castiel’s coat into his hands and eased the material off his shoulders and slung it over his arm. “Try rolling your shirt sleeves up.”

Castiel nodded and unbuttoned his cuffs and expertly rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. For extra measure, he loosened his tie and pulled it free from the collar of his shirt. Dean blinked, admittedly taken aback. He slowly set the coat down on the hood of another vehicle in the garage. It was the most naked Castiel had ever been; at least that Dean had seen. It was hard to redirect his attention away from that fact.

“I could have just dried them when I was done,” Castiel mused.

“Yeah, but it’s just not the same,” Dean said.

Free from the constraints of his heavy coat, Castiel more recklessly rinsed out his sponge and delved his hands deeper into the bucket of water and suds. Another effortless smile played at his lips and his eyes glistened in a sudden delight.

“You’re right,” he agreed, scrubbing now more zealously with little regard for the water dripping off the metal and covering his arms.

Dean unravelled the hose from the wall and brought it over to rinse off the soap, the spray dusting his clothes and settling lightly in his hair. They worked together like this, effortlessly stepping around one another. Castiel scrubbed and Dean washed away the remaining dirt. They didn’t need to speak. For once, they stood together side by side with the distance nothing but literal between them. The void that had once separated them had been filled with their trust and open arms.

When they paused and looked at each other, they truly saw one another.

Castiel saw Dean and Dean saw Castiel.

There were no ghosts here.

Cas was a memory Dean looked back on mournfully, but also with love. He couldn’t allow his own regrets to keep him trapped in the clutches of grief. He couldn’t bear it any longer. And he knew Cas would have wanted more for him. Cas hadn’t lost his life just for Dean to take it in vain. He would be outraged if only he could see him now. Devastated to watch Dean tear himself apart; unable to intervene. Cas couldn’t save him now. Dean had to save himself.

Dean had cast a light on the first step forward into a future free of pain and loneliness. A step towards Castiel. And Castiel had promised to wait.

Now, as Dean gazed upon him, he took yet another step.

“Dean?” Castiel probed curiously.

Dean realised he was staring. He cleared his throat and tossed the hose down. Inspecting the car, he felt satisfied with their work.

“Looks good,” Dean said and tried to wipe his hands dry on his damp jeans.

Castiel peered at his wet clothes and instantly dried himself without so much as blinking.

“Show off,” Dean teased. He reached for a dry cloth to polish off the car whilst Castiel traversed the garage, perhaps taking the time to look at its contents for the first time.

Castiel trailed his hands across the hoods of the old cars, mindlessly peering into their windows. He was taking his time. Dean didn’t realise at first. He assumed the angel was curious, just as he was with Dean’s collection of music and the mass number of books in the library. But his expression was not that of intrigue. He was troubled. Something played at the corners of his mind, taunting him with a question he didn’t know how to ask. Castiel tried delaying the inevitable, eventually circling the entire room. By the time he came back to Dean’s side, the hunter had finished polishing and stood leaning against the car door.

“Something bothering you?” he asked knowingly.

“No,” Castiel said far too quickly.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, cause you’re a terrible liar.”

“It’s nothing,” Castiel tried.

“Then try me. I’ll decide if it’s nothing.” Dean reached out and gently took Castiel’s wrist, pulling him in closer.

Castiel hesitated. “Where’d you get that?” He pointed to Dorothy’s motorbike.

Dean followed his finger and momentarily became distracted. He had been eyeing that bike since he got it but hadn’t found an opportunity to take it out for a spin yet.

“It belongs to a chic named Dorothy. She’s off probably ruling Oz right now.”

“Oz?”

“Yeah, you know, Wizard of Oz? Flying monkeys? Nasty green bitch—I mean witch.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Never mind, it’s not important. The bike’s not mine is what I’m saying.” Dean followed Castiel as he went to inspect the bike.

“You’ve never ridden it?”

“I’ve been meaning to, but I never found the time.”

“Doesn’t seem like you to get caught up in time constraints,” Castiel noted.

Dean considered it for a moment and smiled fondly. Castiel had picked up on his wily ways and his knack for spontaneity. The older he got, the more he mellowed out. Still, a piece of it stuck with him and had apparently carried over into their relationship.

“True, but somehow I did,” Dean granted. He looked between the angel and the bike and grinned mischievously. “You’ve never ridden a bike before, have you?”

“Of course not,” Castiel scoffed and then froze. “No.”

“No? No, what?”

“I am not getting on that bike,” Castiel insisted firmly, backing away.

Dean’s hand slipped from Castiel’s wrist but just barely grasped onto his fingers. He eagerly bounced up and down on the spot and turned to Castiel with pleading eyes, purposely pouting his lips in the most pathetic way possible.

“What are you afraid of? We crash and you get up without a scratch,” Dean pointed out.

“Yes, and then _you_ don’t get up at all,” Castiel huffed.

“Naww, you’re worried about me?”

Dean smiled and leaned into him, one hand moving to circle his waist. It felt nice to be cared about. With Sam, it was just a given—they would always care deeply about one another, doing whatever they could to keep the other one safe. It was different with Castiel. There was no obligation here, nothing familial, just genuine and deep-rooted affection.

“You give me plenty of reasons to worry,” Castiel said plainly, trying hard not to give into him.

“I’ll wear a helmet,” Dean promised.

Castiel considered it grudgingly. “Have you at least ridden /a/ motorbike before?”

“Oh, all the time. I grew up with the Impala but my dad still had a soft spot for a good Harley. Sam and I took turns riding with him sometimes. And our friend Bobby had some old dirt bikes at his salvage yard that he fixed up for us.”

Castiel still didn’t seem convinced as he eyed the bike warily and suddenly held onto Dean’s arm, squeezing just a little too hard.

Dean nudged him with his hip, making him look back at him. Leaning in, Dean kissed him gently.

“Please?” he urged in a quiet whisper.

Castiel groaned somewhat sullenly, but clearly incapable of actual anger. “Fine. Go get your helmet.”

Dean grinned and elatedly kissed him one more time before looking around for Dorothy’s old helmet. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t tried it on once or twice and posed in the mirror, imagining riding around Oz and fighting a flying monkey or two. It was a tight fit, but he liked the old-time look of it and felt it suited him just fine. He nestled it under his arm and went back over to Castiel who had taken the initiative to carefully wheel the bike out so they could both mount it.

“It doesn’t look like it’s designed to fit two people, Dean,” Castiel said.

“And?”

“You need an ‘and’?”

“I’d certainly prefer one,” Dean chortled.

“And there’s two of us.”

“And?”

“Another ‘and’?” Castiel huffed, “now you’re just making fun of me.”

Dean reached out with one hand and clasped the front of Castiel’s shirt, pulling him in for a swift kiss in an attempt to placate him. “Just a little.”

Castiel sighed but kissed Dean again, immediately giving into him and relaxing under his touch.

“I still don’t think we’ll both fit,” he murmured.

“It’ll be fine,” Dean insisted casually, “I’ll hold onto you real tight.”

“Onto me? You don’t—you don’t mean that I’ll be driving it, do you?” Castiel was struck dumb by the very idea.

“For starters, yeah,” Dean said, “but don’t worry, I’ll eventually want a turn.”

“That seems like a bad idea, Dean… I don’t even know how to drive a car and that has four wheels with extra stability and—,”

Another kiss.

“Relax. Trust me.”

Castiel still seemed hesitant.

“Please?” Dean pushed gently.

“Fine. I trust you,” Castiel sighed in defeat.

Dean paused and looked him up and down. His shirt sleeves were still rolled up, his coat left messily folded on one of the cars, and his collar a little loose without his tie around it. Even though he was an angel with all kinds of inhuman strength and fast healing abilities—and even though Dean trusted he wouldn’t actually crash the bike to begin with—it still didn’t seem like appropriate motorcycle attire.

Dean gently thrust his helmet into Castiel’s arms and dashed for the door. “Wait a minute!” he shouted back at him.

When he returned, he traded the helmet for a black leather jacket. He too had donned a jacket; John’s worn, oversized brown one he used to wear all the time. Castiel paused before slipping Dean’s tight-fit leather jacket on without question. Dean took a moment to admire the new look—one he assumed wouldn’t stick. It suited him. It was very ‘tax-accountant’ meets ‘rockstar’. Dean stroked his bottom lip with his thumb, pondering what more could be done for the one time the opportunity presented itself. He reached out and took the material of Castiel’s business shirt and untucked it. His hands slid up Castiel’s stomach to his chest and he undid the top two buttons. Inspecting his work once more, he found he was almost far too satisfied. Clearing his throat and awkwardly running a hand through his hair, he picked up his helmet and put it on to mask the redness in his face.

“Ready?” he enquired.

“I don’t suppose I have any other choice,” Castiel huffed, but he was failing to hide a smile. He was almost as excited as he was nervous.

Castiel carefully mounted the bike and tested the feel of the handles in his hands. Dean settled down behind him, undeniably with some difficulty. The bike was not in fact designed to fit two, but Dean wouldn’t dare give Castiel the satisfaction of admitting it aloud. He was determined to make it work. Scooting in as close as possible, Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist and leaned in close so he could hear his instructions.

Dean tried his best to cover the basics, putting major emphasis on how to use the brake. He repeated that part three times over until Castiel cut him off and repeated his exact words back to him. Reassured, Dean quieted and waited for Castiel to turn on the ignition. He moved slowly at first, very barely allowing the bike to roll a few inches forward, still testing the waters before daring to set sail. Once he was comfortable, he gently tried the throttle, somehow managing not to suddenly dart forward like most new riders. His caution was paying off so far.

“I trust you,” Dean reminded him, just in case there was any doubt.

Castiel didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Instead, he lifted his foot from the ground and steadily took off, following the road out through the garage and into the outdoors. The sun abruptly graced their skin and momentarily blinded Dean. Were it him in control, he would have likely swerved and hit the brakes. But Castiel was unaffected. If anything, he was exhilarated by it. He sped up once they hit the open road, somehow maintaining a perfect balance that took Dean weeks to learn. The wind whipped through Castiel’s hair as he took the brunt of it. Dean’s thighs tightened around Castiel and his arms squeezed his waist. The tight fit made it all the more difficult to hold on, but he wasn’t perturbed by the close proximity. He nestled his chest against Castiel’s back and peered beyond his broad shoulders.

There was nobody else around. It was just them together speeding into the wind. There had never been anything so freeing.

Castiel took a turn with ease and accelerated even more as the road straightened out for the foreseeable future. They had no destination in mind; they didn’t need one. They could go anywhere or nowhere at all as long as they had each other. As long as the barrier of two different worlds wasn’t forced between them.

“I really freaking love you,” Dean said, his voice muffled by the wind and his helmet and the roar of the motorbike. But it felt incredible just to say it. To say it and to mean it and to know deep down that Castiel felt it too.

He didn’t have to ask; he just knew.

Eventually, Castiel slowed and pulled the bike down to the side of the road. He kicked the stand down and waited for Dean to dismount the bike before getting off himself. Dean removed his helmet and ran a hand through what he knew was a bad case of helmet hair. Castiel, meanwhile, looked incredible—all rocker with the leather jacket and windswept hair. Dean grinned and took the collar of Castiel’s unbuttoned and untucked shirt, pulling him in for a quick heated kiss. He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t go without kissing and touching him, just happy to be there and with him and to have said the words he never thought he would ever be ready to say.

“Hey, Dean?” Castiel breathed once they very barely parted.

“Hmm?” Dean was lost for words. The kiss had swept them all out from under him.

“I freaking love you too.”

Dean blinked in surprise and met Castiel’s eye. “You heard that?”

“Of course. Dean, I _am_ a celestial being,” Castiel laughed lightly.

Dean’s cheeks went a light shade of pink and he buried his face into Castiel’s chest, holding him in close by the waist, not wanting to let go.

“You’re such a dork,” Dean smiled.

“And I’m yours.”

“Now you’re going all soft on me,” Dean teased, secretly thrilled.

“Just following your lead,” Castiel easily rebuffed.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re mine and I’m yours.”

Dean loved saying it. He could hide his face and laugh at the words, but they both knew the sincerity.

_‘I freaking love you—I freaking love you too.’_

 

* * *

 

Stumbling in from the garage, Dean’s hand clasped in Castiel’s, they felt the shadow of the bunker hit cool against their heated skin. It swept over Dean in an instant. It sent a shiver coursing down his spine. He trembled inside his coat and leaned into Castiel for his everlasting warmth. But he was cold too.

Sam was standing in the library, an unread book clasped in hand, its corners worn by worried fingers. His jaw stiffened and he shifted his weight from his right side to his left. Dean slowed and passed him, eyeing his back warily and easing himself into a seat. He just somehow knew he ought to sit down.

“Did you tell him?” Sam asked Castiel quietly.

Castiel looked at Dean, his blue eyes riddled with apology.

“I couldn’t,” Castiel said in a broken voice.

“Tell me what?”

Dean’s hands automatically tightened into fists. Knuckles white. Nails in palm. Red crescent marks in skin.

“It’s nothing, Dean—it’s just an idea—it’s just a thought—,”

“Then try me. I’ll decide if it’s nothing,” Dean said again sternly.

Suddenly, he felt cheated by the bike ride. That one moment of glorious freedom and peace he suspected he may never have again.

“Dean—,” Sam started.

“No. I want to hear it from him,” Dean interrupted.

All eyes turned to Castiel.

He heaved a heavy sigh. A shake in his exhale. A fault in his composure.

“Sam and I think that we need to split up… to look for these portals,” Castiel explained gently, “for every portal we get to, there’s a lot more that we miss. If we want to save your mother and find the Nephilim and shut these portals for good, then we need a strategy. Even if it isn’t one we like.”

“I don’t understand,” Dean murmured.

“I can fly. I know neither of you has been eager for me to use my wings, especially considering my early days here, but Sam trusts I won’t take off and abandon you,” Castiel said.

“Well, isn’t that nice of him,” Dean ground out and cast a hateful glare in Sam’s direction.

“Dean… please,” Castiel pleaded.

“Go on.”

“I can cover much more ground, and you two can investigate the portals I miss. If I find my world, I’ll find you and bring you to it.”

“I still don’t understand,” Dean threw his hands up in frustration. “It’s fine. You zap off someplace and I’ll go with you.”

Castiel knelt down in front of Dean and took his hands into his own. “There are things you and Sam need to do. Things that are currently being neglected. And it is greatly my fault.”

“That’s not true,” Dean argued urgently.

“You know it is, Dean. You know it.” Castiel squeezed his hand, healing the red crescent marks in his palms. “Sam can’t do this alone, and I know you don’t want him to. I can do this on my own and bring you in if I find what we’re looking for.”

Dean hesitated. He knew there was truth to his words. Things had been neglected. Cases had been left ignored or buried amidst all the other cases whose precedence had lost almost all meaning. He and Sam couldn’t be everywhere at once. They couldn’t track and inspect all these portals and help save people at the same time. They were only human. There was only so much they could do.

But Dean didn’t want to lose Castiel to the chaos of the world. He didn’t want to watch him go, knowing there was a chance he may never come back.

“What if you get trapped someplace?” Dean asked weakly.

Castiel was silent as he hung his head low. “We will… cross that bridge when and if we come to it.”

Dean shook his head and forced back tears he never wished to shed. He forced back his anger and his fear and his early onset of mourning. He knew something would go wrong. Something always did.

“I hate this,” he said simply and clenched his jaw.

“We all do,” Sam said apologetically. “But we don’t really have any other options.”

“I know.” Dean stood up and kicked his chair in under the table. Sam and Castiel both flinched.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel said, “I know this scares you… but…”

Castiel caressed Dean’s face and forced him to look at him. “But I promise to come home.”

When Dean didn’t say anything, instead just averting his gaze yet again, Castiel leaned into him and whispered so soft that Sam surely couldn’t hear.

“I freaking love you.”

Dean held his hand.

“I freaking love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this very late chapter! Also, do you all like this alternate Castiel more than canon Nazi-Castiel?? Cause I sure do :P Let me know what you thought in the comments- I always love reading your feedback. xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter and are eager for more! I can't predict how frequently I'll be updating as I haven't yet finished plotting everything out. Right now, even I'll be surprised by how this ends haha. Any feedback will a great help and will inspire me to continue (though I finish every story I start anyway!) Until next time! :D xoxo


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